CHAPTER XVIII

THE HOSTAGE

The golden light of eventide lay on the terraced palace gardens, on the

white temple mirrored in the placid lake, on granite balustrades where

roses trailed, on tall, trim boxwood hedges that were centuries old, and

on smooth emerald lawns where peacocks sauntered.

Thither the Princess Valeria, trimly sheathed in russet, and her ladies

Isotta and Dionara, in formally stiff brocades, had come to take the

air, and thither came sauntering also the Knight Bellarion and the

pedant Corsario.

The knight was discoursing Lucretius to the pedant, and the pedant did

not trouble to conceal his boredom. He had no great love of letters, but

displayed a considerable knowledge of Apuleius and Petronius, and

smirkingly quoted lewdnesses now from the 'Golden Ass,' now from

'Trimalchio's Supper.'

Bellarion forsook Lucretius and became a sympathetic listener,

displaying a flattering wonder at Messer Corsario's learning. Out of the

corner of his eye he watched the upper terrace where the Princess

lingered.

Presently he ventured a contradiction. Messer Corsario was at fault, he

swore. The line he quoted was not from Petronius, but from Horace.

Corsario insisted, the dispute grew heated.

'But the lines are verses,' said Bellarion, 'and "Trimalchio's Supper"

is in prose.'

'True. But verses occur in it.' Corsario kept his patience with

difficulty in the face of such irritating mistaken assurance.

When Bellarion laughed his assertion to scorn, he went off in a pet to

fetch the book, so that he might finally silence and shame this ignorant

disputant. Bellarion took his way to the terrace above, where the

Princess Valeria sauntered.

She observed his approach with stern eyes; and when he bowed before her

she addressed him in terms that made of the difference in their ranks a

gulf between them.

'I do not think, sir, that I sent for you.'

He preserved an unruffled calm, but his answering assertion sounded

foolish in his own ears.

'Madonna, I would give much to persuade you that I am your servant.'

'Your methods do not change, sir. But why should they? Are they not the

methods that have brought you fame?'

'Will you give your ladies leave a moment, while I speak two words with

you. Messer Corsario will not be absent long. I have sent him off on a

fool's errand, and it may be difficult to make another opportunity.'

For a long moment she hesitated. Then, swayed, perhaps, by her very

mistrust of him, she waved her ladies back with her fan.

'Not in that direction, highness,' he said quickly, 'but in that. So

they will be in line with us, and any one looking from the Palace will

not perceive the distance separating us, but imagine us together.'

She smiled a little in disdainful amusement. But she gave the order.

'How well equipped you are!' she said.

'I came into the world, madonna, with nothing but my wits. I must do

what I can with them.' Abruptly, for there was no time to lose, he

plunged into the business. 'I desire to give you a word of warning in

season, lest, with your great talent for misunderstanding, you should be

made uneasy by what I hope to do. If I succeed in that which brings me,

your brother will be sent hence to-morrow, or the next day, to my Lord

Facino's care at Alessandria.'

That turned her white. 'O God! What now? What villainy is meant?'

'To remove him from the Regent's reach, to place him somewhere where he

will be safe until the time comes for his own succession. To this end am

I labouring.'

'You are labouring? You! It is a trap! A trap to ... to ...' She was

starkly terrified.

'If it were that, why should I tell you? Your foreknowledge will no more

assist than it can hinder. I do this in your service. I am here to

propose an alliance between my Lord Facino and Montferrat. This alliance

was suggested by me for two purposes: to serve Facino's immediate needs,

and to ensure the Regent's ultimate ruin. It may be delayed; but it will

come, just as surely as death comes to each of us. To make your brother

safe while we wait, I shall impose it as a condition of the alliance

that the Marquis Gian Giacomo goes to Facino as a hostage.'

'Ah! Now I begin to understand.'

'By which you mean that you begin to misunderstand. I have persuaded

Facino that the Marquis will serve as a hostage for the Regent's good

behaviour, and the Regent shall be made to believe that this is our sole

purpose. But the real aim is as I have told you: to make your brother

safe. By Facino he will be trained in all those things which it imports

that a prince should learn; he will be made to forsake the habits and

pursuits by which he is now being disgraced and ruined. Lady, for your

peace of mind believe me!' He was emphatic, earnest, solemn.

'Believe you?' she cried out in mental torture. 'I have cause to do

that, have I not? My past dealings with you--indeed, all that is known

of you, bear witness to your truth and candour. By falsehood, trickery,

and treachery you have raised yourself to where you stand to-day. And

you ask me to believe you ... Why ... why should you do this? Why? That

is the only test. What profit do you look to make?'

He looked at her with pain and misery in his dark eyes.

'If in this thing there were any design to hurt your brother, I ask you

again, madonna, why should I stand here to tell you what I am about to

attempt?'

'Why do you tell me at all?'

'To relieve you from anxiety if I succeed in removing him. To let you

know if I should fail of the attempt, of the earnest desire, to serve

you, although you make it very hard.'

Messer Corsario was hurrying towards them, a volume in his hands.

She stood there, silent, stricken, not knowing what to believe, desiring

hungrily to trust Bellarion, yet restrained by every known action in his

past.

'If I live, madonna,' he said quietly, lowering his voice to a murmur,

'you shall yet ask me to forgive your cruel unbelief.'

Then he turned to meet Corsario's chuckling triumph, and to submit that

the pedant should convict him of error.

'Not so great a scholar as he believes himself, this Messer Bellarion,'

Corsario noisily informed the Princess. And then to Bellarion, himself:

'You'll dispute with soldiers, sir, in future, who lack the learning and

the means to put you right. Here are the lines; here in "Trimalchio's

Supper," as I said. See for yourself.'

Bellarion saw. He simulated confusion. 'My apologies, Messer Corsario,

for having given you the trouble to fetch the book. You win the trick.'

It was an inauspicious word. To Valeria it was clear that the trick had

lain in temporarily removing Messer Corsario's inconvenient presence,

and that trick Bellarion had won.

She moved away now with her ladies who had drawn close upon Corsario's

approach, and Bellarion was left to endure the pedant's ineffable

company until supper-time.

Later that night Theodore carried him off to his own closet to discuss

in private and in greater detail the terms of the proposed alliance.

His highness had considered and had taken his resolve now that he was

prepared to enter into a treaty. He looked for a clear expression of

satisfaction. But Bellarion disappointed him.

'Your highness speaks, of course, with the full concurrence of your

Council?'

'My Council?' The Regent frowned over the question.

'Where the issues are so grave, my Lord Facino will require to be sure

that all the terms of the treaty are approved by your Council, so that

there may be no going back.'

'In that case, sir,' he was answered a little frostily, 'you had better

attend in person before the Council to-morrow, and satisfy yourself.'

That was precisely what Bellarion desired, and having won the point,

whose importance the shrewd Theodore was far from suspecting, Bellarion

had no more to say on the subject that evening.

In the morning he attended before the Council of Five, the Reggimento,

as it was called, of Montferrat. At the head of the council-table the

Marquis Theodore was enthroned in a chair of State flanked by a

secretary on either hand. Below these sat the councillors, three on one

side and two on the other, all of them important nobles of Montferrat,

and one of them, a white-bearded man of venerable aspect, the head of

that great house of Carreto, which once had disputed with the Paleologi

the sovereignty of the State.

When the purpose for which Bellarion came had been formally restated,

there was a brief announcement of the resources at Montferrat's disposal

and a demand that the occupation of Vercelli should be the first step of

the alliance.

When at last Bellarion was categorically informed that Montferrat was

prepared to throw her resources into an alliance which they thanked the

Count of Biandrate for proposing, Bellarion rose to felicitate the

members of the Council upon their decision in terms calculated to fan

their smouldering ardour into a roaring blaze. The restoration to

Montferrat of Vercelli, the subsequent conquest of Genoa were not,

indeed, to be the end in view, but merely a beginning. The two provinces

of High and Low Montferrat into which the State at present was divided

should be united by the conquest of the territory now lying between.

Thus fortified, there would be nothing to prevent Montferrat from

pushing her frontiers northward to the Alps and southward to the sea.

Then, indeed, might she at last resuscitate and realise her old

ambitions. Established not merely as the equal but as the superior of

neighbouring Savoy, with Milan crumbling into ruins on her eastward

frontiers, it was for Montferrat to assume the lordship of Northern

Italy.

It went to their heads, and when Bellarion resumed his seat it was they

who now pressed the alliance. No longer asking him what means Facino

brought to it, they boasted and exaggerated the importance of those

which they could offer.

Thus the treaty came there and then to be drawn up, article by article.

The secretaries' pens spluttered and scratched over their parchments,

and throughout it seemed to the Regent and his gleeful councillors that

they were getting the better of the bargain.

But at the end, when all was done, and the documents complete, Messer

Bellarion had a word to say which was as cold water on the white heat to

which he had wrought their enthusiasm.

'There remains only the question of a guarantee from you to my Lord

Facino.'

'Guarantee!' They echoed the word in a tone which clearly said they did

not relish it. The Regent went further.

'Guarantee of what, sir?'

'That Montferrat will fulfil her part of the undertaking.'

'My God, sir! Do you imply a doubt of our honour?'

'It is no question of honour, highness; but of a bargain whose terms are

clearly to be set forth to avoid subsequent disputes on either side.

Does the word "guarantee" offend your highness? Surely not. For it was

your highness who first used that word between us.'

The councillors looked at the Regent. The Regent remembered, and was

uncomfortable.

'Yesterday your highness asked me what guarantees my Lord Facino would

give that he would fulfil his part. I did not cry out in wounded honour,

but at once conceded that the immediate occupation of Vercelli should be

your guarantee. Why, then, sirs, should it give rise to heat in you if

on my lord's behalf I ask a return in kind, something tangible to back

the assurance that when Vercelli is occupied you will march with my Lord

Facino against Milan as he may deem best?'

'But unless we do that,' said the Regent impatiently, 'there can follow

no conquest of Genoa for us.'

'If there did not, you would still be in possession of Vercelli and that

is a great deal. Counsels of supineness might desire you to rest content

with that.'

'Should we heed them, do you suppose?' said the Marquis of Carreto.

'I do not. Nor will my lord. But suppositions cannot be enough for him.'

This interruption where all had flowed so smoothly was clearly fretting

them. Another interposed: 'Would it not be well, highness, to hear what

guarantees my Lord of Biandrate will require?'

And Theodore assenting, Bellarion spoke to anxious ears.

'It is in the nature of a hostage, and one that will cover various

eventualities. If, for instance, the Marquis Gian Giacomo should come to

the throne before these enterprises are concluded, it is conceivable

that he might decline to be bound by your undertakings. If there were no

other reasons--and they will be plain enough to your excellencies--that

one alone would justify my lord in asking, as he does, that the person

of the Marquis of Montferrat be delivered into his care as a hostage for

the fulfilment of this treaty.'

Theodore, betrayed into a violent start, sat now pale and thoughtful,

commanding his countenance by an effort. Another in his place would have

raged and stormed and said upon impulse things from which he might not

afterwards retreat. But Theodore Paleologo was no creature of impulse.

He weighed and weighed again this thing, and allowed his councillors to

babble, listening the while.

They were hostile, of course, to the proposal. It had no precedent, they

said. Whereupon Bellarion smothered them in precedents culled from the

history of the last thousand years. Retreating from that assertion,

then, they became defiant, and assured him that precedent or no

precedent they would never lend themselves to any such course.

The Regent still said nothing, and whilst vaguely suspicious he wondered

whether the emphatic refusal of the councillors was based upon some

suspicion of himself. Had they, by any chance, despite his caution, been

harbouring mistrust of his relations with his nephew, and did they think

that this proposal of Facino's was some part of his own scheming,

covering some design nefarious to the boy?

One of them turned to him now: 'Your highness says no word to this.' And

the others with one voice demanded his own pronouncement. He stirred.

His face was grave.

'I am as stricken as are you. My opinion, sirs, you have already

expressed for me.'

Bellarion, smiling a little, as one who is entirely mystified, now

answered them.

'Sirs, suffer me to say that your heat fills me with wonder. My Lord

Facino had expected of you that the proposal would be welcome.'

'Welcome?' cried Carreto.

'To view life in a foreign court and camp is acknowledged to be of all

steps the most important in the education of a future prince. This is

now offered to the Lord Gian Giacomo in such a way that two objects

would simultaneously be served.'

The simple statement, so simply uttered, gave pause to their opposition.

'But if harm should befall him while in Facino's hands?' cried one.

'Can you suppose, sirs, that my Lord Facino, himself, would dread the

consequences of such a disaster less than you? Can you suppose that any

measure would be neglected that could make for the safety and well-being

of the Marquis?'

He thought they wavered a little, reassured by his words.

'However, sirs, since you feel so strongly,' he continued, 'my Lord

Facino would be very far from wishing me to insist.' One of them drew a

breath of relief. The others, if he could judge their countenances,

moved in apprehension. The Regent remained inscrutable. 'It remains,

sirs,' Bellarion ended, 'for you to propose an alternative guarantee.'

'Time will be lost in submitting it to my Lord Facino,' Carreto

deplored, and the others by their nods, and one or two by words, showed

the returning eagerness to seal this treaty which meant so much to

Montferrat.

'Oh, no,' Bellarion reassured them. 'I am empowered to determine. We

have no time to lose. If this treaty is not concluded by to-morrow, my

orders are to assume that no alliance is possible and continue my

journey to the Cantons to levy there the troops we need.'

They looked at one another blankly, and at last the Regent asked a

question.

'Did the Count of Biandrate, himself, suggest no alternative against our

refusing him this particular guarantee?'

'It did not occur to him that you would refuse. And, frankly, sirs, in

refusing that which himself he has suggested, it would be courteous to

supply your reasons, lest he regard it as a reflection upon himself.'

'The reason, sir, you have already been afforded,' Theodore answered.

'We are reluctant to expose our future sovereign to the perils of a

campaign.'

'That assumes perils which could not exist for him. But I am perhaps

presuming. I accept your reason, highness. It is idle to debate further

upon a matter which is decided.'

'Quite idle,' Theodore agreed with him. 'That guarantee we cannot give.'

'And yet ...' began the Marquis of Carreto.

The Regent interrupted him, for once he was without suavity.

'There is "no and yet" to that,' he snapped.

Again the councillors looked at one another. They were growing uneasy.

The immediate benefits, and the future glory of Montferrat which had

been painted for them, were beginning to dissolve under their eyes like

a mirage.

In the awkward pause that followed, Bellarion guessed their minds. He

rose.

'In this matter of determining the guarantee, you will prefer, no doubt,

to deliberate without me.' He bowed in leave-taking. Then paused.

'It would be a sad thing, indeed, if a treaty so mutually desirable and

so rich in promise to Montferrat should fail for no good reason.' He

bowed again. 'To command, sirs.'

One of the secretaries came to hold the door for him, and he passed out.

An echo of the Babel that was loosed in that room on his departure

reached him before he had gone a dozen paces. He smiled quietly as he

sought his own apartments. He warmly approved himself. It had been

shrewd of him to keep back all hint of the hostage until he stood before

the Council. If he had breathed a suggestion of it in his preliminary

talks with the Regent, he would have been dismissed at once. Now,

however, Messer Theodore was committed to a battle in which his own

conscience would fight against him, weakening him by fear of discovery

of his true aims.

'The wicked flee when no man pursueth,' said Bellarion to himself. 'And

you'll never stand to fight this out, my wicked one.'

An hour and more went by before he was summoned again, to hear the

decision of the Council. That decision is best given in Bellarion's own

words as contained in the letter preserved for us in the Vatican Library

which he wrote that same night to Facino Cane, one of the very few

writings of his which are known to survive. It is couched in the pure

and austere Lingua Tosca which Dante sanctioned, and it may be Englished

as follows:

MY DEAR LORD: These will reach you by the hand of Wenzel who goes hence

to Alessandria to-morrow together with ten of my Swiss to serve as

escort for the young Prince of Montferrat. To render this escort worthy

of his rank, it is supplemented by ten Montferrine lances sent by his

highness the Marquis Theodore. Wenzel also bears the treaty with

Montferrat, into which I have entered in your name. Its terms are as we

concerted. It was not without a deal of cajolery and strategy and only

by setting the Regent at odds with his Council that I was able to obtain

as a hostage the person of the Marquis Gian Giacomo. The Regent, had the

choice been given him, would rather, I think, have sent you his right

hand. But he was constrained by the Council who see and rightly only

good to the State in this alliance with your excellent lordship.

He has insisted, however, that the boy be accompanied by his tutor

Corsario, a scoundrel who has schooled him in naught but lewdness, and

his gentleman Fenestrella, who, though young, is an even greater

preceptor in those same Stygian arts. Since it is proper that a prince

on his travels should be attended by tutor and companion, there was no

good objection that I could make to this. But I beg you, my dear lord,

to regard these two as the agents of the Marquis Theodore, to watch them

closely, and to deal with them drastically should you discover or

suspect even that they practise anything against the young Marquis. It

would be a good service to the boy, and acceptable, no doubt, in the

sight of God, if you were to wring the necks of these two scoundrels out

of hand. But difficulties with the Regent of Montferrat would follow.

As for the Prince himself, your lordship will find him soft in body, and

empty in mind, or at least empty of all but viciousness. If despite your

many occupations and preoccupations your lordship could trouble yourself

to mend the lad's ways, or to entrust him to those who will undertake

the mending of them and at the same time watch over him vigilantly, you

would perform a deed for which God could not fail to reward your

lordship.

I need not remind you, my dear lord, that the safety of a hostage is a

very sacred matter, nor should I presume so to remind you but for my

reasons for believing, as your lordship already knows, that this young

Prince may be beset by perils from the very quarters which ordinarily

should be farthest from suspicion. In addition to these twain, the

Marquis is attended by a physician and two body-servants. Of these I

know nothing, wherefore they should be observed as closely as the

others.

The responsibility under which you lie towards the State of Montferrat

will be your justification for placing attendants of your own choosing

to act jointly with these. The physician should be permitted to give the

boy no physic of which he does not previously partake. In this way, and

if you do not warn him of it beforehand, you may speedily and

effectively be rid of him.

I am grieved that you should be plagued with this matter at such a

season. But I hope that you will not count the price too dear for the

alliance of Montferrat, which puts into the field at once close upon six

thousand well-equipped men, between horse and foot. You will now be in

sufficient strength to deal at your pleasure with that base Duke and his

Guelphic Riminese brigands.

Send me your commands by Wenzel, who is to rejoin me at Lucerne. I shall

set out in the morning as soon as the Marquis Gian Giacomo has left

Casale for Alessandria. Your lordship shall have news of me soon again.

Humbly I kiss the hands of my lady your Countess, and for you, my dear

lord, that God may bless and prosper you is the fervent prayer of this

your son and servant

BELLARION

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

THE LORD BELLARION

On a day of September of the year of Our Lord 1409, a dust-laden

horseman clattered into the courtyard of a palace near the Bridge of the

Trinity in Florence, and announced himself a courier with letters for

the noble Lord Bellarion.

He was consigned by a man-at-arms to an usher, by the usher to a

chamberlain, and by the chamberlain to a slim young secretary. From this

you will gather that access to the Lord Bellarion was no longer a

rough-and-ready business; and, from this again, that he had travelled

far since detaching himself from the Lord Facino Cane a year ago.

At the head of the condotta which he had raised, he had fought in the

course of that year a half-score of engagements, now in this service,

now in that, and in all but one he had won easy triumphs. Even his

single failure--which was at Verruno in the pay of the Estes of

Ferrara--was such as to enhance his reputation. Forced by overwhelming

numbers to admit defeat, yet by sheer skill he had baffled the great

Pandolfo's attempt to surround him, and had brought off his condotta

with such little loss that Pandolfo's victory was a barren one.

His condotta, now known as the 'Company of the White Dog,' from the

device he had adopted, had grown to the number of twelve hundred men,

with a heavy preponderance of infantry, his handling of which was giving

the other great captains of Italy food for thought. In fame he was the

rival of Piccinino, almost the rival of Sforza himself, under whose

banner he had served in the war against his old opponent Buonterzo. And

Fra Serafino da Imola tells us unequivocally in his chronicle that the

ambush in which Buonterzo ended his turbulent life in March of that year

was of Bellarion's planning. Since then he had continued in the service

of the Florentine Republic at a monthly stipend which had gradually been

raised with the growth of his condotta to twenty thousand gold florins.

Like all famous men, he was not without detractors. He was charged with

a cold ruthlessness, which brought, it was claimed, an added horror into

warfare, shocking adversaries, as it had shocked Buonterzo on the

Trebbia, into ordering that no quarter should be given. So opposed,

indeed, was this ruthlessness to the accepted canons of Italian warfare,

that it was said Bellarion could enlist only Swiss mercenaries who

notoriously were not queasy in these matters. The probable truth,

however, is that he employed only Swiss because they were the best

infantry in the world, and further so as to achieve in his following a

solidarity and cohesion not to be found in other companies, made up of a

medley of nationalities.

Lastly he was found lacking in those spectacular qualities of

leadership, in that personal knightly prowess by which such men as

Carmagnola took the eye. Never once had he led a charge, stimulating his

followers by his own heroical example; never had he taken part in an

escalade, or even been seen at work in a mêlée. At Subriso, where he

had routed the revolted Pisans, it was said that he had never left the

neighbourhood of his tent and never mounted his horse until the

engagement was all but over.

Hence, whilst his extraordinary strategic talents were duly respected,

it began to be put about that he was lacking in personal courage.

Careless of criticism, he had pursued the course he prescribed himself,

gathering laurels as he went. On those laurels he was momentarily

resting in the City of the Lilies when that courier rode into the

courtyard of his palace with letters from the Count of Biandrate.

The Lord Bellarion, as men now called this leader grown out of the

erstwhile nameless waif, in a pleated full-sleeved tunic of purple satin

gripped about his loins by a golden girdle and with a massive chain of

gold about his neck, stood in a window embrasure to decipher the crabbed

untidy characters, indited from Alessandria on the feast of Saint

Anthony.

'My dear son,' Facino wrote, 'I need you. So come to me at once with

every man that you can bring. The Duke has called in the French.

Boucicault is in Milan with six thousand men, and has been appointed

ducal governor. Unless I strike quickly before I am myself stricken,

Milan will be made a fief of France and the purblind Duke a vassal of

the French king. It is the Duke's subjects themselves who summon me. The

gout, from which I have been free for months, is troubling me again

infernally. It always seizes me just when I most need my strength. Send

me word by the bearer of these that you follow at speed.'

Bellarion lowered the letter and gazed out across the spacious sunlit

courtyard. There was a ghost of a smile on his bronzed face, which had

gained in strength and virility during the year that was sped. He was

faintly, disdainfully amused at the plight into which Gian Maria's evil

blundering must have placed him before he could take the desperate step

of calling in the French.

The Malatesta domination had not been long-lived. Their Guelphic grip

had been ruthlessly crushing the city, where every office, even that of

Podestà, was given into the hands of Guelphs. And that same grip had

been crushing the Duke himself, who discovered belatedly that, in

throwing off the yoke of Facino for that of the Malatesta, he had

exchanged King Log for King Stork. Then, in his shifty, vacillating way,

he sent ambassadors to beg Facino to return. But the ambassadors fell

into the hands of the Malatesta spies, and the Duke was constrained to

shut himself up in the fortress of Porta Giovia to evade their fury.

Whereupon the Malatesta had drawn off to Brescia, which they seized,

Pandolfo loudly boasting that he would not rest until he was Duke of

Milan, so that Gian Maria Visconti should pay the price of breaking

faith with him.

Terror now drove the Duke to lengths of viciousness and inhumanity

unprecedented even in his own vile career.

Issuing from the Castle of Porta Giovia to return to his palace so soon

as the immediate menace was removed, he found himself beset by crowds of

his unfortunate people, distracted by the general paralysis of industry

and menaced by famine. Piteously they clamoured about him.

'Peace, Lord Duke! Peace! Give us Facino for our governor, and give us

peace! Peace, Lord Duke! Peace!'

His fair face grimly set, his bulging eyes glaring venomously, he had

ridden ahead with his escort, closing his ears to their cries, and more

than one unfortunate was trampled under the horses' hooves as they

passed on. But the cries continuing, that evil boy suddenly reined in

his bravely caparisoned charger.

'You want peace, you dogs? You'll deafen me with hellcat cries of peace!

What peace do you give me, you filthy rabble? But you shall have peace!

Oho! You shall have it.' He stood in his stirrups, and swung round to

his captain. 'Ho, there, you!' His face was inflamed with fury, a wicked

mockery, and evil mirth hung about his swollen purple lips. So terrible,

indeed, was his aspect that della Torre, who rode beside him, ventured

to set upon his arm a restraining hand. But the Duke flung the hand off,

snarling like a dog at his elderly mentor. He backed his horse until he

was thigh to thigh with his captain.

'Give them what they ask for,' he commanded. 'Clear me a way through

this dungheap! Use your lances. Give them the peace they want.'

A great cry arose from those who stood nearest, held there by the press

behind.

'Lord Duke! Lord Duke!' they wailed.

And he laughed at them, laughed aloud in maniacal mockery, in maniacal

anticipation of the gratification of his unutterable blood-lust.

'On! On!' he commanded. 'They are impatient for peace!'

But the captain of his guard, a gentleman of family, Bertino Mantegazza,

sat his horse appalled, and issued no such order as he was bidden.

'Lord Duke ...' he began, but got no further, for the Duke, catching the

appealing note in his voice, seeing the horror in his eyes, suddenly

crashed his iron glove into the young man's face. 'God's blood! Will you

stay to argue when I command?'

Mantegazza reeled under that cruel blow, and with blood suffusing his

broken face would have fallen but that one of his men caught and

supported him in the saddle.

The Duke laughed to see what he had done, and took command himself.

'Into them! Charge!' he commanded in a shout on which his voice shrilled

up and cracked. And the Bavarian mercenaries who composed the guard, to

whom the Milanese were of no account and all civilians contemptible,

lowered their lances and charged as they were bidden.

Two hundred of those poor wretches found in death the peace for which

they clamoured. The others fled in panic, and the Duke rode on to the

Broletto through streets which terror had emptied.

That night he issued an edict forbidding under pain of death the

utterance of the word 'Peace' in his City of Milan. Even from the Mass

must that accursed word be expunged.

If they had not also clamoured for Facino, it is probable that to Facino

fresh ambassadors would have been sent to invite him to return. But the

Duke would have men know that he was Duke, that he was not to be coerced

by the wishes of his subjects, and so, out of perversity so blind that

it took no account of the pit he might be digging for himself, the Duke

invited Boucicault to Milan.

When Boucicault made haste to answer, then the appeal to Facino which

should have gone from the Duke went, instead, from the Duke's despairing

subjects. Hence Facino's present summons to Bellarion.

There was no hesitation in Bellarion's mind and fortunately no obstacle

in his present employment. His agreement with the Florentine Republic

had been determined in the last few days. Its renewal was at present

under consideration.

He went at once to take his leave of the Signory, and, four days ahead

of his army, he was in Alessandria being affectionately embraced by

Facino.

He arrived at the very moment at which, in council with his captains and

his ally the Marquis Theodore, who had come over from Vercelli, Facino

was finally determining the course of action.

'I planned in the sure belief that you would come, bringing at least a

thousand men.'

'I bring twelve hundred, all of them well seasoned.'

'Good lad, good lad!' Facino patted his shoulder. 'Come you in and let

them hear it from you.'

Leaning heavily upon Bellarion's arm, for the gout was troubling him, he

led his adoptive son up that winding stone staircase which Bellarion so

well remembered ascending on that morning when, as a muleteer, he went

to fool Vignate.

'So Master Theodore is here?' said Bellarion.

'And glad to come. He's been restive in Vercelli, constantly plaguing me

to place him in possession of Genoa. But I've held him off. I do not

trust Master Theodore sufficiently to do all my part before he has done

any of his. A sly fox that and an unscrupulous!'

'And the young Marquis?' Bellarion enquired.

Facino laughed. 'You will not recognise him, he has grown so demure and

staid. He thinks of entering holy orders. He'll yet come to be a man.'

Bellarion stared. 'That he was well your letters told me. But this ...

How did you accomplish it?'

'By driving out his tutor and the others who came with him. A foul

crew!' He paused on the stairs. 'I took their measure at a glance, and I

had your hint. When one night Fenestrella and the tutor made the boy

drunk and themselves drunk with him, I sent them back to Theodore with a

letter in which I invited him to deal with them as their abuse of trust

deserved. I dismissed at the same time the physician and the

body-servants, and I informed Theodore that I would place about the

Marquis in future none but persons whom I could trust. Perforce he must

write to thank me. What else could he do? You laugh! Faith, it's

laughable enough! I laughed, too, which didn't prevent me from being

watchful.'

They resumed the ascent, and Bellarion expressed the hope that the Lady

Beatrice was well. Common courtesy demanded that he should conquer his

reluctance to name her to Facino. He was answered that she was at

Casale, Facino having removed her thither lest Alessandria should come

to be besieged.

Thus they came to the chamber where the council sat.

It was the same stone chamber with its vaulted ceiling and Gothic

windows open to the sky in which Vignate had given audience to

Bellarion. But it was no longer as bare as when the austere Tyrant of

Lodi had inhabited it. The walls were hung with arras, and rich

furnishings had been introduced by the more sybaritic Facino.

About the long oaken table sat five men, four of whom now rose. The one

who remained seated, as if in assertion of his rank, was the Regent of

Montferrat. To the newcomer's bow he returned a short nod.

'Ah! The Lord Bellarion!' His tone was languid, and Facino fancied that

he sneered. Wherefore he made haste to snap: 'And he brings twelve

hundred men to the enterprise, my lord.'

'That should ensure him a welcome,' the Regent admitted, but without

cordiality. He seemed, Bellarion observed, out of humour and

disgruntled, shorn of his habitual suavity.

The others came forward to greet Bellarion. First the magnificent

Carmagnola, taking the eye as ever by the splendour of his raiment, the

dignity of his carriage, and the poise of his handsome fair head. He was

more cordial than Bellarion had yet known him. But there was something

of patronage, of tutorial commendation in his congratulatory allusions

to Bellarion's achievements in the field.

'He may yet be as great a soldier as yourself, Francesco,' Facino

growled, as he sagged into the chair at the table's head to ease his

leg.

Missing the irony, Carmagnola bowed. 'You'll make me vain, my lord.'

'My God!' said Facino.

Came the brawny, bearded, red-faced Koenigshofen, grinning honest

welcome and taking Bellarion's hand in a grip that almost hurt. Then

followed the swarthy, mercurial little Piedmontese captain, Giasone

Trotta, and lastly there was a slight, graceful, sober, self-contained

boy in whom Bellarion might have failed to recognise the Gian Giacomo

Paleologo of a year ago but for the increased likeness he bore to the

Princess Valeria. So strong was that likeness grown that Bellarion was

conscious of a thrill as he met the solemn, searching gaze of those dark

and rather wistful eyes.

Place at the table was found for Bellarion, and he was informed of the

situation and of the resolve which had been all but reached. With his

own twelve hundred, and with three thousand men that Montferrat would

send after leaving a sufficient force to garrison Vercelli, Facino could

put eight thousand men into the field, which should be ample for the

undertaking. They were well mounted and well equipped, the equipment

including a dozen cannon of three hundred pounds apiece and ten bombards

throwing balls of two hundred pounds.

'And the plan of campaign?' Bellarion asked.

It was expounded to him. It was extremely simple. They were to march on

Milan and reduce it. All was in readiness, as he would have seen for

himself; for as he rode into Alessandria he had come through the great

encampment under the walls, where the army awaited the order to march.

When Facino had done, Bellarion considered a moment before speaking.

'There is an alternative,' he said, at last, 'which you may not have

considered. Boucicault is grasping more than he can hold. To occupy

Milan, whose people are hostile to a French domination, he has drawn all

his troops from Genoa, where he has made himself detested by his

excessive rigours. You are confusing the issues here. You plan under the

persuasion that Milan is the enemy, whereas the only real adversary is

Boucicault. To cover himself at one point, he has uncovered at another.

Why aim your blow at his heart which is protected by his shield, when

you may aim it at his head which is unguarded by so much as a helmet?'

They made him no answer save with their eyes which urged that he,

himself, should answer the question he propounded.

'March, then, not on Milan, but on Genoa, which he has so foolishly left

open to attack--a folly for which he may have to answer to his master,

the King of France. The Genoese themselves will offer no resistance, and

you may take possession of the city almost without a blow.'

Approval came warm and eagerly from the Marquis Theodore, to be cut

short by Facino.

'Wait! Wait!' he rasped. The notion of Theodore's ambitions being

entirely gratified before Theodore should have carried out any of his

own part of the bargain was not at all in accordance with Facino's

views. 'How shall the possession of Genoa bring us to Milan?'

'It will bring Boucicault to Genoa,' Bellarion answered.

'It will draw him from his stronghold into the open, and his strength

will be reduced by the fact that he must leave some force behind to keep

the Milanese in subjection during his absence.'

So strategically sound did the plan appear to Facino upon consideration

that it overcame his reluctance to place the Regent of Montferrat at

this stage in possession of Genoa.

That reluctance he afterwards expressed to Bellarion, when they were

alone.

'You do it, not for Theodore, but for yourself,' he was answered. 'As

for Theodore ...' Bellarion smiled quietly.

'You need not grudge him any advantages. They will prove very transient.

Pay-day will come for him.'

Facino looked sharply at his adoptive son. 'Why, boy,' said he, at last,

in a voice of wonder. 'What is there between you and Theodore of

Montferrat?'

'Only my knowledge that he's a scoundrel.'

'If you mean to make yourself the scourge of scoundrels you'll be busy

in Italy. Why, it's sheer knight-errantry!'

'You may call it that,' said Bellarion, and became thoughtful.

CHAPTER II

THE BATTLE OF NOVI

The rest of this affair--this campaign against the too-ambitious vicar

of the King of France--is a matter of history, which you may read in the

chronicles of Messer Corio and elsewhere.

With a powerful army numbering close upon twelve thousand men, Facino

descended upon Genoa, which surrendered without a blow. At first there

was alarm at the advance of so large an army. The fear of pillage with

its attendant violence ran though the Genoese, who took the precaution

of sending their women and their valuables to the ships in the harbour.

Then the representatives of the people went out to meet Facino, and to

assure him that they would welcome him and the deliverance from the

French yoke provided that he would not bring his troops into the city.

'The only purpose for which I could wish to do so,' Facino answered from

the litter to which he was confined by the gout, grown worse since he

had left Alessandria, 'would be to enforce the rightful claims of the

Marquis of Montferrat. But if you will take him for your prince, my army

need advance no nearer. On the contrary, I will withdraw it towards Novi

to make of it a shield against the wrath of the Marshal Boucicault when

he returns!'

And so it befell that, attended only by five hundred of his own men,

Theodore of Montferrat made his state entry into Genoa on the morrow,

hailed as a deliverer by the multitude, whilst Facino fell back on Novi,

there to lie in wait for Boucicault. Nor was his patience tried. Upon

Boucicault confidently preparing for Facino's attack, the news of the

happenings in Genoa fell like a thunderbolt from a clear sky.

Between fury and panic he quitted Milan, and by his very haste destroyed

what little chance he may ever have had of mending the situation. By

forced marches he reached the plains about Novi to find the road held

against his jaded men. And here he piled error upon error. Being

informed that Facino himself, incapacitated by the gout, had been

carried that morning into Genoa, and that his army was commanded in his

absence by his adoptive son Bellarion, the French commander decided to

strike at once before Facino should recover and return to direct the

operations in person.

The ground was excellent for cavalry, and entirely of cavalry some four

thousand strong was Boucicault's main battle composed. Leading it in

person, he hurled it upon the enemy centre in a charge which he thought

must irresistibly cleave through. Nor did the mass of infantry of which

Bellarion's centre was composed resist. It yielded ground before the

furious onslaught of the French lances. Indeed, as if swayed by panic,

it began to yield long before any contact was established, and the

French in their rash exultation never noticed the orderliness of that

swift retreat, never suspected the trap, until they were fast caught in

it. For whilst the centre yielded, the wings stood firm, and the wings

were entirely composed of horse, the right commanded by the Piedmontese

Trotta, the left by Carmagnola, who, sulky and disgruntled at his

supersession in a supreme command which he deemed his right, had never

wearied of denouncing this disposition of forces as an insensate

reversal of all the known rules.

Back and back, ever more swiftly fell the foot. On and on pressed the

French, their lances couched, their voices already clamantly mocking

these opponents, who were being swept away like leaves by the mere gust

of the charge.

Bellarion, riding in the rear of his retreating infantry with a mounted

trumpeter beside him, uttered a single word. A trumpet blast rang out,

and before its note had died the retreat was abruptly checked.

Koenigshofen's men, who formed the van of that centre, suddenly drove

the butts of their fifteen-foot German pikes into the ground. Each man

of the two front ranks went down on one knee. A terrible hedge of spears

suddenly confronted the men-at-arms of France, riding too impetuously in

their confidence. Half a hundred horses were piked in the first impact.

Then the impetus of those behind, striking the leading ranks which

sought desperately to check, drove them forward onto those formidable

German points. The entire charging mass was instantly thrown into

confusion.

'That,' said Bellarion grimly, 'will teach Boucicault to respect

infantry in future. Sound the charge!'

The trumpeter wound another blast, thrice repeated, and in answer, as

Bellarion had preconcerted, the right and left wings, which had

gradually been extending, wheeled about and charged the French on both

flanks simultaneously. Only then did Boucicault perceive whither his

overconfident charge had carried him. Vainly did he seek to rally and

steady his staggering followers. They were enveloped, smashed, ridden

down before they could recover. Boucicault, himself, fighting like a man

possessed, fighting, indeed, for very life, hewed himself a way out of

that terrible press, and contrived to join the other two of the three

battles into which he had divided his army and which were pressing

forward now to the rescue. But they arrived too late. There was nothing

left to rescue. The survivors of the flower of Boucicault's army had

thrown down their arms and accepted quarter, and the reserves ran in to

meet a solid enemy front, which drove wedges into their ranks, and

mercilessly battered them, until Boucicault routed beyond redemption

drew off with what was left.

'A swift action, which was a model of the harmonious collaboration of

the parts.' Thus did Bellarion describe the battle of Novi which was to

swell his ever-growing fame.

Boucicault, as Bellarion said, had sought to grasp more than he could

hold when he had responded to Gian Maria's invitation, and at Novi he

lost not only Milan, but Genoa as well. In ignominy he took the road to

France, glad to escape with his life and some battered remnants of his

army, and Italy knew him no more after that day.

In the Fregoso Palace at Genoa, overlooking the harbour, where Theodore

of Montferrat had taken up his quarters, and where the incapacitated

Facino was temporarily lodged, there was a great banquet on the

following night to celebrate at once the overthrow of the French and the

accession of Theodore as Prince of Genoa. It was attended by

representatives of the twelve greatest families in the State as well as

by Facino, hobbling painfully on a crutch, and his captains; and whilst

the official hero of the hour was Theodore, the new Prince, the real

hero was Bellarion.

He received without emotion, without any sign either of pride or of

modesty, the tribute lavishly paid him by illustrious men and

distinguished women, by the adulatory congratulatory speech of Theodore,

or the almost malicious stress which Carmagnola laid on his good

fortune.

'You are well named Bellarione "Fortunato,"' that splendid soldier had

said. 'I am still wondering what would have happened if Boucicault had

perceived the trick in time.'

Bellarion was coldly amiable in his reply.

'It will provide you with healthy mental exercise. Consider at the same

time what might have happened if Buonterzo had fathomed our intentions

at Travo, or Vignate had guessed my real purpose at Alessandria.'

Bellarion moved on, leaving Camagnola to bite his lip and digest the

laughter of his brother captains.

His interview later with Prince Theodore was more serious. From its

outset he mistrusted the fawning suavity of the courtly Regent, so that,

when at the end of compliments upon his prowess, the Regent proposed to

take him and his company into the pay of Montferrat at a stipend vastly

in excess of that which Florence had lately paid him, Bellarion was not

at all surprised. Two things became immediately clear. First, that

Theodore desired greatly to increase his strength, the only reason for

which could be the shirking, now that all his aims were accomplished, of

his engagements towards Facino. Second, that he took it for granted--as

he had done before--that Bellarion was just a venal, self-seeking

adventurer who would never permit considerations of honour to stand in

the way of profit.

And the cupidity and calculation now revealed in Bellarion's countenance

assured Theodore that his skill in reading men had not been at fault on

this occasion.

'You offer me ...' He broke off. Stealthily his glance swept the

glittering groups that moved about the spacious white-and-gold room to

Facino Cane where he sat at the far end in a great crimson chair. He

lowered his voice a little. 'The loggia is empty, my lord. We shall be

more private there.'

They sauntered forth to that covered balcony overlooking the great

harbour where ranks of shipping drawn up against the mole were

slumbering under the stars. A great towering galley was moving across

the water with furled sails, her gigantic oar-blades flashing silver in

the moonlight.

With his glance upon that craft, his voice subdued, Bellarion spoke, and

the close-set eyes of the tall, elegant Regent strained to pierce the

shadows about the young condottiero's face.

'This is a very noble offer, Lord Prince ...'

'I hope I shall never begrudge a man his worth.' It was a speech true to

the character he loved to assume. 'You are a great soldier, Bellarion.

That fact is now established and admitted.'

Bellarion did not contradict him. 'I do not perceive at present your

need for a great soldier, highness. True, your proposal seems to argue

plans already formed. But unless I know something of them, unless I may

judge for myself the likely extent of the service you require, these

generous terms may in effect prove an illusion.'

Theodore resumed his momentarily suspended breath. He even laughed a

little, now that the venal reason for Bellarion's curiosity was

supplied. But he deemed it wise to probe a little further.

'You are, as I understand, under no present engagement to the Count of

Biandrate?'

Bellarion's answer was very prompt.

'Under none. In discharge of past favours I engaged to assist him in the

campaign against the Marshal Boucicault. That campaign is now ended, and

with it my engagement. I am in the market, as it were, my lord.'

'That is what I assumed. Else, of course, I should not have come to you

with my offer. I lose no time because soon you will be receiving other

proposals. That is inevitable. For the same reason I name a stipend

which I believe is higher than any condottiero has ever yet commanded.'

'But you have not named a term. That was why I desired to know your

plans so that for myself I might judge the term.'

'I will make the engagement to endure for three years,' said Theodore.

'The proposal becomes generous, indeed.'

'Is it acceptable?'

Bellarion laughed softly. 'I should be greedy if it were not.'

'It will carry the usual condition that you engage for such service as I

may require and against any whom circumstances may make my enemy.'

'Naturally,' said Bellarion. But he seemed to falter a little.

'Naturally,' he repeated. 'And yet ...' He paused, and Theodore waited,

craftily refraining from any word that should curb him in opening his

mind. 'And yet I should prefer that service against my Lord Facino be

excepted.'

'You would prefer it?' said Theodore. 'But do you make it a condition?'

Bellarion's hesitation revealed him to the Regent for a man torn between

interest and scruples. Weakly, at last, he said: 'I would not willingly

go in arms against him.'

'Not willingly? That I can understand. But you do not answer my

question. Do you make it a condition?'

Still Bellarion avoided answering.

'Would the condition make my employment impossible?' And now it was

Theodore who hesitated, or seemed to hesitate. 'It would,' he said at

last. Very quickly he added: 'Nothing is less likely than that Facino

and I should be opposed to each other. Yet you'll understand that I

could not possibly employ a condottiero who would have the right to

desert me in such a contingency.'

'Oh, yes. I understand that. I have understood it from the first. I am

foolish, I suppose, to hesitate where the terms are so generous.' He

sighed, a man whose conscience was in labour. 'My Lord Facino could

hardly blame me ...' He left the sentence unfinished. And Theodore to

end the rogue's hesitation threw more weight into the scales.

'And there will be guarantees,' he said.

'Guarantees? Ah!'

'The lands of Asti along the Tanaro from Revigliasco to Margaria to be

made into a fief, and placed under your vicarship with the title of

Count of Asti.'

Bellarion caught his breath. He turned to face the Marquis, and in the

moonlight his countenance looked very white.

'My lord, you promise something that is not yours to bestow.'

'It is to make it mine that I require your service. I am frank, you

see.'

Bellarion saw more. He saw the infernal subtlety with which this tempter

went to work. He made clear his intentions, which must amount to no less

than the conquest and occupation of all those rich lands which lay

between High and Low Montferrat. To accomplish this, Alessandria,

Valenza, and a score of other cities now within the Duchy of Milan would

pass under his dominion. Inevitably, then, must there be war with

Facino, who to the end of his days would be in arms to preserve the

integrity of the Duchy. And Theodore offered this condottiero, whose

services he coveted, a dazzling reward to be gained only when those aims

were fulfilled.

On that seducer's arm Bellarion placed a hand that shook with

excitement.

'You mean this, my lord? It is a solemn undertaking.'

With difficulty Theodore preserved his gravity. How shrewdly had he not

taken the measure of this greedy rogue!

'Your patent shall be made out in anticipation, and signed at the same

time as the contract.'

Bellarion stared out to sea. 'Count Bellarion of Asti!' he murmured, a

man dazzled, dazed. Suddenly he laughed, and laughing surrendered his

last scruple as Theodore was already confident that he would. 'When do

we sign, Lord Prince?'

'To-morrow morning, Lord Count,' Theodore answered with a tight-lipped

smile, and on that, the matter satisfactorily concluded, they quitted

the loggia and parted company.

They met again for the signing of the documents early on the following

morning in the Regent's closet, in the presence of the notary who had

drawn up the contract at Theodore's dictation, of two gentlemen of

Montferrat, and of Werner von Stoffel, who accompanied Bellarion, and

who, as Bellarion's lieutenant, was an interested party.

The notary read first the contract, which Bellarion pronounced correct

in all particulars, and then the ennobling parchment whereby Theodore

created him Count of Asti, anticipatorily detailing the lands which he

was to hold in fief. This document already signed and sealed was

delivered to Bellarion together with the contract which he was now

invited to sign. The notary dipped a quill and proffered it. But

Bellarion looked at the Regent.

'Documents,' he said, 'are perishable, and the matter contained in these

is grave. For which reason I have brought with me a witness, who in case

of need can hereafter testify to your undertaking, my lord.'

The Marquis frowned. 'Let Messer Stoffel examine them for himself then.'

'Not Messer Stoffel. The witness I prefer waits in your antechamber,

highness.' He stepped quickly to the door, followed by the Regent's

surprised glance. He pulled it open, and at once Facino was revealed to

them, grave of countenance, leaning upon his crutch.

The Regent made a noise in his throat, as Facino hobbled in to take the

parchments which Bellarion proffered him. Thereafter there was a spell

of dreadful silence broken at last by the Lord Theodore who was unable

longer to control himself.

'You miserable trickster! You low-born, swaggering Judas! I should have

known better than to trust you! I should have known that you'd be true

to your false, shifty nature. You dirty fox!'

'A trickster! A Judas! A fox!' Bellarion appealed mildly to the company

against the injustice of these epithets. 'But why such violence of

terms? Could I in loyalty to my adoptive father put my signature to this

contract until it had received his approval?'

'You mock me, you vile son of a dog!'

Facino looked up. His face was stern, his eyes smouldered.

'Think of some fouler epithet, my lord, so that I may cast it at you. So

far no term that you have used will serve my need.'

That gave Theodore pause in his reviling of another. But only for a

moment. Almost at once he was leaping furiously towards Facino. The

feral nature under his silken exterior was now displayed. He was a man

of his hands, this Regent of Montferrat, and, beggared of words to meet

the present case, he was prepared for deeds. Suddenly he found Bellarion

in his way, the bold, mocking eyes level with his own, and Bellarion's

right hand was behind his back, where the heavy dagger hung.

'Shall we be calm?' Bellarion was saying. 'There are half a dozen men of

mine in the anteroom if you want violence.'

He fell back, and for all that his eyes still glared he made an obvious

effort to regain his self-command. It was difficult in the face of

Facino's contemptuous laughter and the words Facino was using.

'You treacherous slug! I place you in possession of Vercelli; I make you

Prince of Genoa, before calling upon you to strike a single blow on my

behalf, and you prepare to use this new-found power against me! You'll

drive me from Alessandria! You'll seduce from me the best among my

captains to turn his weapons against me in your service! If Bellarion

had been an ingrate like yourself, if he had not been staunch and loyal,

whom you dare to call a Judas, I might have known nothing of this until

too late to guard myself. But I know you now, you dastardly usurper,

and, by the Bones of God, your days are numbered. You'll prepare for war

on Facino Cane, will you? Prepare, then, for, by the Passion, that war

is coming to you.'

Theodore stood there white to the lips, between his two dismayed

gentlemen, and said no word in answer.

Facino, with curling lip, considered him.

'I'd never have believed it if I had not read these for myself,' he

added. Then proffered the documents to Bellarion again. 'Give him back

his parchments, and let us go. The sight of the creature nauseates me.'

And without more, he hobbled out.

Bellarion lingered to tear the parchments across and across. He cast

them from him, bowed ironically, and was going out with Stoffel when the

Regent found his voice at last.

'You kite-hearted trickster! What stipend have you wrung from Facino as

the price of this betrayal?'

Bellarion paused on the threshold. 'No stipend, my lord,' he answered

equably. 'Merely a condition: that so soon as the affairs of Milan are

settled, he will see justice done to your nephew, the Marquis Gian

Giacomo, now of age to succeed, and put a definite end to your

usurpation.'

His sheer amazement betrayed from him the sudden question. 'What is Gian

Giacomo to you, villain?'

'Something he is, or else I should never have been at pains to make him

safe from you by demanding him as a hostage. I have been labouring for

him for longer than you think, highness.'

'You have been labouring for him? You? In whose pay?'

Bellarion sighed. 'You must be supposing me a tradesman, even when I am

really that quite senseless thing, a knight-errant.' And he went out

with Stoffel.

CHAPTER III

FACINO'S RETURN

A strong party of men-at-arms rode out of Genoa that morning, their

corselets flashing in the sunshine, and took the upland road by the

valley of the Scrivia towards Novi and Facino's camp. In their midst

went a mule litter wherein Facino brooded upon the baseness and

ingratitude of men, and asked himself whether perhaps his ambitious

Countess were not justified of her impatience with him because he

laboured for purposes other than the aggrandisement of himself.

From Novi he despatched Carmagnola with a strong escort to Casale to

bring the Countess Beatrice thence to Alessandria without loss of time.

He had no mind to allow Theodore to hold her as a hostage to set against

Gian Giacomo who remained with Facino.

Three days after leaving Novi, Facino's army, reduced by Theodore's

contingent of three thousand men which had been left behind, but still

in great strength, reached Vigevano, and halted there to encamp again

outside the town. Facino's vanity was the main reason. He would not

cross the Ticino until he could sit a horse again, so that he might ride

lance on thigh into Milan. Already his condition was greatly improved

under the ministrations of a Genoese physician named Mombelli, renowned

for his treatment of the podagric habit, who was now in Facino's train.

A week passed, and Facino now completely restored was only restrained

from pushing on by the arguments of his physician. Meanwhile, however,

if he did not go to Milan, many from Milan were coming to him.

Amongst the first to arrive was the firebrand Pusterla of Venegono, who

out of his passionate vindictiveness came to urge Facino to hang Gian

Maria and make himself Duke of Milan, assuring him of the support of all

the Ghibelline faction. Facino heard him without emotion, and would

commit himself to nothing.

Amongst the last to arrive was the Duke himself, in a rash trustfulness

which revealed the desperate view he must take of his own case and of

the helplessness to which his folly and faithlessness had reduced him.

He came accompanied by his evil genius Antonio della Torre, the fop

Lonate, the captain of his guard Bertino Mantegazza, and a paltry escort

of a hundred lances.

With those three attending him he was received by Facino in the house of

the Ducal Prefect of Vigevano.

'Your highness honours me by this proof of your trust in my integrity,'

said Facino, bending to kiss the jewelled ducal hand.

'Integrity!' The Duke's grotesque face was white, his red eyebrows drawn

together in a scowl. 'Is it integrity that brings you in arms against

me, Facino?'

'Not against you, Lord Duke. Never yet have I stood in arms against your

highness. It is upon your enemies that I make war. I have no aim but the

restoration of peace to your dominions.'

'Fine words on the lips of a mutinous traitor!' sneered the Duke. He

flung himself petulantly into a chair.

'If your highness believed that, you would not dare to come here.'

'Not dare? God's bones, man! Are these words for me? I am Duke of

Milan.'

'I study to remember it, highness,' said Facino, and the rumblings of

anger in his voice drove della Torre to pluck at his master's sleeve.

Thus warned, Gian Maria changed the subject but not the tone. 'You know

why I am here?'

'To permit me, I hope, to place myself at your potency's commands.'

'Ah! Bah! You make me sick with your fair words.' He grew sullen. 'Come,

man. What is your price?'

'My price, highness? What does your highness conceive I have to sell?'

'A little patience with his magnificence, my lord,' della Torre begged.

'I thought I was displaying it,' said Facino. 'Otherwise it might be

very bad for everybody.' He was really growing angry.

And now the idiot Duke must needs go prodding him into fury.

'What's that? Do you threaten me? Why, here's an insolent dog!'

Facino turned livid with passion. A tall fellow among his captains, very

noble-looking in cloth of silver under a blue houppelande, laughed

aloud. The pale, bulging eyes of Gian Maria sought him out venomously.

'You laugh, knave?' he snarled, and came to his feet, outraged by the

indignity. 'What is here for laughter?'

Bellarion laughed again as he answered: 'Yourself, Lord Duke, who in

yourself are nothing. You are Duke of Milan at present by the grace of

God and the favour of Facino Cane. Yet you do not hesitate to offend

against both.'

'Quiet, Bellarion,' Facino growled. 'I need no advocate.'

'Bellarion!' the Duke echoed, glaring malevolently. 'I remember you, and

remember you I shall. You shall be taught ...'

'By God, it is your highness shall be taught!' Facino crashed into the

threatening speech roaring like a thundergod. 'Get you hence, back to

your Milan until I come to give you the lesson that you need, and thank

God that you are your father's son and I have grace enough to remember

it, for otherwise you'd never go hence alive! Away with you, and get

yourself schooled in manners before we meet again or as God's my life

I'll birch you with these hands.'

Terrified, cowering before that raging storm, the line of which had

never yet broken about his ducal head, Gian Maria shrank back until his

three companions were between himself and Facino. Della Torre, almost

trembling, sought to pacify the angry condottiero.

'My lord! My lord! This is not worthy!'

'Not worthy! Is it worthy that I shall be called "dog" by a

cross-grained brat to whom I've played the foster-father? Out of my

sight, sir! Out of my sight, all of you! The door, Bellarion! The Duke

of Milan to the door!'

They went without another word, fearing, indeed, that another word might

be their last. But they did not yet return to Milan. They remained in

Vigevano, and that evening della Torre came seeking audience again of

Facino to make the Duke's peace with him, and Facino, having swallowed

his rage by then, consented to receive his highness once more.

The young man came, this time well schooled in prudence, to announce

that he was prepared to give Facino peaceful entrance into Milan and to

restore him to his office of ducal governor. In short, that he was

prepared to accord all that which he had no power to refuse.

Facino's answer was brief and clear. He would accept the office again,

provided that it was bestowed upon him for a term of three years, and

the bestowal guaranteed by an oath of fealty to be sworn upon his hands

by the Syndics of the Grand Council. Further, the Castle of Porta Giovia

was to be delivered into his keeping absolutely, and not only the

Guelphic Sanseverino, who now held the office of Podestà, but all other

Guelphs holding offices of State must be dismissed. Lastly, Antonio

della Torre, whom Facino accused of being at the root of most of the

trouble which had distracted Milan, must go into banishment together

with Lonate.

This last was the condition that Gian Maria would not swallow. He swore

it was a vile attempt to deprive him of all his friends.

Thus the conference ended inconclusively, and it was not until three

weeks later that the Duke finally yielded, and accepted Facino's terms

in their entirety.

On the evening of Wednesday, the sixth of November of that year,

attended by a large company, Facino Cane, Count of Biandrate, rode into

Milan to resume his governorship, a governorship which he was resolved

to render absolute this time. They entered the city in a downpour of

rain, notwithstanding which the streets were thronged by the people who

turned out to welcome the man in whom they beheld their saviour.

And in the Old Broletto, the young Duke, without a single friendly

Guelph at hand to comfort him, sat listening to that uproar, gnawing his

finger-nails and shuddering with rage and spite.

It becomes necessary, however, to remember, lest we should be swept

along by this stream of Viscontean history, that this present chronicle

is concerned not with the fortunes of Milan, but with those of

Bellarion, and that in these Facino Cane and Gian Maria Visconti are

concerned only to the extent of the part they bore in moulding them.

In the confused pages of old Corio you may read in detail, though you

may not always clearly understand, the events that followed upon

Facino's triumphant return to Milan. You will gather that the strength

in which he was known to be gave pause to Malatesta's plans to seize the

Duchy; that in fact the arch-Guelph chose to content himself with his

usurpation of the lordship of Brescia and Bergamo, and in Bergamo he

remained until Facino went to seek him there some two years later. If he

did not go before, it was because other more immediate and active

enemies of Milan claimed his attention. Vignate was in arms again, as

were also Estorre Visconti and his nephew Giovanni Carlo, and a host of

lesser insurgents, chief of whom was the Duke's own brother, that

Filippo Maria Visconti who was Count of Pavia. By the Ghibellines who

had fled to him from Milan during the days of Malatesta and Boucicault's

domination, Filippo Maria had been flattered into believing that he was

that party's only hope in Northern Italy. His ambition thus aroused, he

was ready to take advantage of the general distraction, and to

appropriate for himself the ducal chlamys. To this purpose was he arming

when Facino returned to Milan, and news of his preparations reached

Facino whilst he was suppressing the various rebellious outbreaks in the

Milanese, stamping out the embers of revolt in such places as Desio and

Gorgonzola. Only when he had restored order, established a proper

administration, and so brought back tranquillity to that harassed land,

did he turn his attention to the menace of the enemies farther afield.

And the first of these was Filippo Maria. He marched on Pavia, carried

the city by assault and put it to sack, choosing of all nights in the

year for that operation the night of Christmas.

That sack of Pavia is one of the most unsparing and terrible in the

terrible history of sacks, and the deed remains a blot upon the fame of

a soldier who, although rough and occasionally even brutal in his ways,

was yet a leader of high principles and a high sense of duty.

Thereafter he dealt with Filippo Maria much as he had dealt with his

ducal brother. He appointed himself governor of the young man's

dominions, filled the offices of State with men in his own confidence

and completely stripped the Count of authority.

The fat, flabby young Prince submitted in a singularly apathetic

fashion. He was of solitary, studious habits, a recluse, almost savagely

shy, shunning the society of men because of his excessive consciousness

of his own grotesque ugliness.

The spark of ambition that had been struck from him having been thus

summarily quenched, he retired to his books again, and let Facino have

his way with the State, nor complained so long as Facino left him in the

enjoyment of the little that was really necessary to his eremitic ways.

Facino made now of Pavia his headquarters, coming to dwell in the great

castle itself, and bringing thither from Alessandria his Countess. And

with the Countess of Biandrate came also the Princess Valeria of

Montferrat to rejoin at last her brother who had continued throughout in

Facino's train. The Princess had left Casale with the Countess when

Carmagnola appeared there as Facino's envoy with an escort. Her going

had been in the nature of a flight, whose object had been first to

rejoin her cherished brother, and second, to remove herself from the

power of her uncle, which, in all the circumstances made clear by

Carmagnola, seemed prudent. It is possible that she may also have hoped

by her presence near Facino to stimulate him into the fulfilment of the

threat against the Regent on which he had parted from him in Genoa.

But Facino had still more immediate matters to rectify before coming to

the affair of the Lord Theodore. The Regent must wait his turn.

He moved against Canturio in the following May, and made short work of

it. The campaign against Crema followed, and meanwhile Bellarion, with a

condotta increased to fifteen hundred men and supported by Koenigshofen,

had marched out of Milan to deal with the rebellious Bignate, whom in

the end he finally and definitely defeated. That done he returned to

Milan, where, ever since Facino's descent upon Pavia, he had held the

position of Facino's deputy, and had earned respect and even affection

by the equable wisdom of his rule.

All this in greater detail you will find set forth by Corio and Fra

Serafino of Imola, and it is Fra Serafino who tells us that Facino,

determined that Bellarion should not suffer by the loyalty which had

made him refuse the County of Asti, had constrained Gian Maria to create

him Count of Gavi, and the Commune of Milan to enlist the services of

his condotta for two years at a stipend of thirty thousand ducats

monthly.

CHAPTER IV

THE COUNT OF PAVIA

In the vast park of Pavia the trees stood leafless and black against the

white shroud of snow that covered the chilled earth. The river Ticino

gurgled and swirled about the hundred granite pillars which carried the

great roofed bridge, five hundred feet in length, spanning its grey and

turgid waters. Beyond this, Pavia the Learned reared above white roofs

her hundred snow-capped towers to the grey December sky, and beyond the

city, isolated, within the girdle of a moat that was both wide and deep,

stood the massive square castle, pink as coral, strong as iron, at once

impregnable fortress and unrivalled palace, one of the great monuments

of Viscontian power and splendour, described by Petrarch as the

princeliest pile in Italy.

The pride of the place was the library, a spacious square chamber in one

of the rectangular towers that rose at each of the four corners of the

castle. The floor was of coloured mosaics, figuring birds and beasts,

the ceiling of ultramarine star-flecked in gold, and along the walls was

ranged a collection of some nine hundred manuscript parchment volumes

bound in velvet and damask, or in gold and silver brocades. Their

contents contained all that was known of theology, astrology, medicine,

music, geometry, rhetoric, and the other sciences. This room was the

favourite haunt of the lonely, morose, and studious boy, the great Gian

Galeazzo's younger son, Filippo Maria Visconti, Count of Pavia.

He sat there now, by the log fire that hissed and spluttered and flamed

on the cavernous hearth, diffusing warmth and a fragrance of pine

throughout the chamber. And with him at chess sat the Lord Bellarion

Cane, Count of Gavi, one of the new-found friends who had invaded his

loneliness, and broken through the savage shyness which solitude and

friendlessness had set about him like a shell.

The others, the dark and handsome Countess of Biandrate, the fair and

now almost ethereal Princess of Montferrat, and that sturdier

counterpart of herself, her brother, were in the background by one of

the two-light windows with trefoil arches springing from slender

monials.

The Princess was bending low over a frame, embroidering in red and gold

and blue an altar-cloth for San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro. The Countess was

yawning over a beautifully illuminated copy of Petrarch's 'Trionfo

d'Amore.' The boy sat idle and listless between them, watching his

sister's white tapering fingers as they flashed to and fro.

Presently he rose, sauntered across to the players, drew up a stool, and

sat down to watch the game over which they brooded silently.

A crutch lay beside Bellarion, and his right leg was thrust out stiff

and unbending, to explain why he sat here on this day of late December

playing chess, whilst the campaign against Malatesta continued to rage

in the hills of Bergamo. He was suffering the penalty of the pioneer.

Having already demonstrated to his contemporaries that infantry, when

properly organised and manœuvred, can hold its own in the field against

cavalry, he had been turning his attention to artillery. Two months ago

he had mounted a park of guns under the walls of Bergamo with the

intention of breaching them. But at the outset of his operations a

bombard had burst, killing two of his bombardiers and breaking his

thigh, thus proving Facino's contention that artillery was a danger only

to those who employed it.

The physician Mombelli, who still continued in Facino's train, had set

the bone, whereafter Bellarion had been carefully packed into a mule

litter, and by roads, which torrential rains had reduced to quagmires,

he had been despatched to Pavia to get himself mended. His removal from

the army was regretted by everybody with two exceptions: Carmagnola,

glad to be relieved of a brother captain by comparison with whose

military methods his own were constantly suffering in the general

esteem; and Filippo Maria, when he discovered in Bellarion a

chess-player who was not only his equal but his master, and who in other

ways won the esteem of that very friendless boy. The Princess Valeria

was dismayed that this man, who out of unconquerable prejudice she

continued to scorn and mistrust, should become for a season her fellow

inquiline. And it was in vain that Gian Giacomo, who in the course of

his reformation had come to conceive a certain regard for Bellarion,

sought to combat his sister's deep-rooted prejudice.

When he insisted that it was by Bellarion's contriving that he had been

removed from his uncle's control, she had been moved to vehement scorn

of his credulity.

'That is what the trickster would have us think. He no more than carried

out the orders of the Count of Biandrate. His whole life bears witness

to his false nature.'

'Nay, now, Valeria, nay. You'll not deny that he is what all Italy now

proclaims him: one of the greatest captains of his time.'

'And how has he made himself that? Is it by knightly qualities, by

soldierly virtues? All the world knows that he prevails by guile and

trickery.'

'You've been listening to Carmagnola,' said her brother. 'He would give

an eye for Bellarion's skill.'

'You're but a boy,' she reminded him with some asperity.

'And Carmagnola, of course, is a handsome man.'

She crimsoned at the sly tone. On odd visits to Pavia, Carmagnola had

been very attentive to the Princess, employing all a peacock's arts of

self-display to dazzle her.

'He is an honest gentleman,' she countered hotly. 'It is better to trust

an upright, honest soldier than a sly schemer whose falsehood has been

proven to us.'

'If he schemes my ruin for my uncle's profit, he goes about it oddly,

neglecting opportunities.'

She looked at him with compassion. 'Bellarion never aims where he looks.

It is the world says that of him, not I.'

'And at what do you suspect that he is aiming now?'

Her deep eyes grew thoughtful. 'What if he serves our uncle to destroy

us, only so that in the end he may destroy our uncle to his own

advantage? What if he should aim at a throne?'

Gian Giacomo thought the notion fantastic, the fruit of too much

ill-ordered brooding. He said so, laughing.

'If you had studied his methods, Giannino, you would not say that. See

how he has wrought his own advancement. In four short years this son of

nobody, without so much as a name of his own has become the Knight

Bellarion, the Lord Bellarion of the Company of the White Dog, and now

the Lord Count of Gavi holding the rich lands of Gavi in feud.'

One there was who might have told her things which would have corrected

her judgment, and that was Facino's Countess. For the Lady Beatrice knew

the truth of those events in Montferrat which were at the root of the

Princess Valeria's bitter prejudice, of which also she was aware.

'You hate him very bitterly,' the Countess told her once when Bellarion

had been the subject of their talk.

'Would not you, if you were in my place?'

And the Countess, looking at her with those long indolent eyes of hers,

an inscrutable smile on her red lips, had answered with languorous

slowness: 'In your place it is possible that I should.'

The tone and the smile had intrigued the Princess for many a day

thereafter. But either she was too proud to ask what the Countess had

meant, or else afraid.

When after some eight weeks abed, Bellarion had begun to hobble about

the castle, and it was impossible for the Princess entirely to avoid

him, she was careful never to be alone where he might so surprise her,

using him when they met in the company of others with a distant, frigid

courtesy, which is perhaps the most piercing of all hostility.

If it wounded Bellarion, he gave no sign. He was--and therein lay half

the secret of his strength--a very patient man. He was content to wait

for the day when by his contriving the reckoning should be presented to

the Marquis Theodore, and she should know at last whose servant he

really was. Meanwhile, he modelled his demeanour upon her own. He did

not seek her company, nor indeed that of any in the castle save Filippo

Maria, with whom he would spend long hours at chess or instructing him

out of his own deep learning supported by one or another of the

treatises in that fine library.

Until the coming of Bellarion, the Count of Pavia had believed himself a

strong chess-player. Bellarion had made him realise that his knowledge

of the game was elementary. Where against former opponents he had swept

to easy triumphs, he now groaned and puffed and sweated over the board

to lessen the ignominy of his inevitable defeats.

To-day, however, he was groaning less than usual. He had piled up a

well-supported attack on Bellarion's flank, and for the first time in

weeks--for these games had begun whilst Bellarion was still abed--he saw

victory ahead. With a broad smile he brought up a bishop further to

strengthen the mass of his attack. He saw his way to give check in three

and checkmate in four moves.

Although only in his twentieth year, he was of a hog-like bulk. Of no

more than middle height, he looked tall when seated, for all the length

of him was in his flabby, paunchy body. His limbs were short and

shapeless. His face was as round as the full moon and as pale. A great

dewlap spread beneath his chin, and his neck behind hung in loose fat

folds upon his collar, so that the back of his head, which was flat,

seemed to slope inwards towards the crown. His short black hair was

smooth and sleek as a velvet cap, and a fringe of it across his forehead

descended almost to the heavy black eyebrows, thus masking the

intellectual depth of the only noble feature of that ignoble

countenance. Of his father all that he had inherited physically was the

hooked, predatory nose. His mouth was coarsely shaped and its lines

confirmed the impression of cruelty you gathered from the dark eyes

which were small and lack-lustre as a snake's. And the impression was a

true one, for the soul of this shy, morose young Prince was not without

its share of that sadic cruelty which marked all the men of his race.

To meet the bishop's move, Bellarion advanced a knight. The Prince's

laugh rang through the silent room. It was a shrill almost womanish

laugh, and it was seldom heard. High-pitched, too, was the voice that

followed.

'You but delay the inevitable, Bellarion,' he said, and took the knight.

But the move of the knight, which had appeared purely defensive to the

Prince in his intentness upon his own attack, had served to uncover the

file of Bellarion's queen. Supports had been previously and just as

cunningly provided. Bellarion advanced his hand, a long beautiful hand

upon which glowed a great carved sapphire set in brilliants--the blue

and white that were his colours. Forth flashed his queen across the

board.

'Checkmate, Lord Prince,' said Bellarion quietly, and sank back smiling

into the brocaded chair.

Filippo Maria stared unbelieving at the board. The lines of his mouth

drooped, and his great pendulous cheeks trembled. Almost he seemed on

the point of tears.

'God rot you, Bellarion! Always, always is it the same! I plan and build

and whilst you seem to do no more than defend, you are preparing a

death-stroke in an unexpected quarter.' Between jest and earnest he

added: 'You slippery rogue! Always you defeat me by a trick.'

The Princess Valeria looked up from her embroidery on the word.

Bellarion caught the movement and the glance in his direction. He knew

the thought behind, and it was that thought he answered.

'In the field, my opponents use the same word to decry me. But those who

are with me applaud my skill.' He laughed. 'Truth is an elusive thing,

highness, as Pontius Pilate knew. The aspect of a fact depends upon the

angle from which you view it.'

Filippo Maria sat back, his great chin sunk to his breast, his podgy

white hands gripping the arms of his chair, his humour sullen.

'I'll play no more to-day,' he said.

The Countess rose and crossed the room with a rustle of stiff brocade of

black and gold.

'Let me remove the board,' she said. 'A vile, dull game. I wonder that

you can waste such hours upon it.'

Filippo Maria raised his beady eyes. They kindled as they observed her,

raking her generous yet supple lines from head to foot. It was not the

first time that the watchful Bellarion had seen him look so at Facino's

lady, nor the first time that he had seen her wantonly display herself

to provoke that unmistakable regard. She bent now to the board, and

Filippo's smouldering glance was upon the warm ivory beauty of her neck,

and the swell of her breast revealed by the low-cut gown.

'It is human to despise what we do not understand,' Bellarion was

answering her.

'You would defend the game, of course, since you excel in it. That is

what you love, Bellarion; to excel; to wield mastery.'

'Do we not all? Do not you, yourself, madonna, glory in the power your

beauty gives you?'

She looked at Filippo. Her heavy eyelids drooped. 'Behold him turned

courtier, my lord. He perceives beauty in me.'

'He would be blind else,' said the fat youth, greatly daring. And the

next moment in a reaction of shyness a mottled flush was staining his

unhealthy pallor.

Lower drooped the lady's eyelids, until a line of black lashes lay upon

her cheek.

'The game,' Gian Giacomo interposed, 'is a very proper one for princes.

Messer Bellarion told me so.'

'He means, child,' Filippo answered him, 'that it teaches them a bitter

moral: that whilst a State depends upon the Prince--the Prince himself

is entirely dependent upon others, being capable in his own person of

little more than his meanest pawn.'

'To teach that lesson to a despot,' said Bellarion, 'was the game

invented by an Eastern philosopher.'

'And the most potent piece upon the board, as in the State, is the

queen, symbolising woman.' Thus Filippo Maria, his eyes full upon the

Countess again.

Bellarion laughed. 'Aye! He knew his world, that ancient Oriental!'

But he did not laugh as the days passed, and he observed the growing

lechery in the beady eyes with which the Count of Pavia watched the Lady

Beatrice's every movement, and the Lady Beatrice's provocative

complacency under that vigilance.

One day, at last, coming upon the Countess alone in that library,

Bellarion unmasked the batteries he had been preparing.

He hobbled across to the arched window by which she was seated, and

leaning against its monial, looked out upon the desolate park. The snows

had gone, washed away by rains, and since these had come a frost under

which the ground lay now as grey and hard as iron.

'They will be feeling the rigours of the winter in the camp under

Bergamo,' he said, moving, as ever, obliquely to the attack.

'They will so. Facino should have gone into winter quarters.'

'That would mean recommencing in the spring a job that is half done

already.'

'Yet with his gout and the infirmities of age, it might prove wiser in

the end.'

'Each age has its own penalties, madonna. It is not only the elderly

among humanity who need compassion.'

'Wisdom oozes from you like sweat from another.' There was a tartness in

her accents. 'If I were your biographer, Bellarion, I should write of

you as the soldier-sage, or the philosopher-at-arms.'

Propped on his crutch and his one sound leg, Bellarion considered her,

his head on one side, and fetched a sigh.

'You are very beautiful, madonna.'

She was startled. 'God save us!' she cried. 'Does the soldier-sage

contain a mere man, after all?'

'Your mouth, madonna, is too sweetly formed for acids.'

'The choicest fruits, sir, have an alloy of sharpness. What else about

me finds favour in your eyes?'

'In my eyes! My eyes, madonna, are circumspect. They do not prowl

hungrily over another's pastures.'

She looked at him between anger and apprehension, and slowly a wave of

scarlet came to stain her face and bosom, to tell him that she

understood. He lowered himself carefully to a chair, thrusting out his

damaged leg, to the knee-joint of which articulation was only just

beginning to return.

'I was saying, madonna, that they will be feeling the rigours of the

winter in the camp under Bergamo. There was a hard frost last night, and

after the frost there will be rains under which the hills thereabouts

will melt in mud.' He sighed again. 'You would regret, madonna, to

exchange for that the ease and comfort of Pavia.'

'You have the fever again. I am not thinking of making that exchange.'

'No. I am thinking of it for you.'

'You! Saint Mary! And do you dispose of me?'

'It will be cold up there, madonna. But you need cooling. Coolness

restores judgment. It will bring you back to a sense of duty to your

lord.'

She came to her feet beside him, quivering with anger. Almost he thought

her intention was to strike him.

'Have you come here to spy upon me?'

'Of course. Now you know why I broke my leg.'

She looked unutterable scorn. 'The Princess Valeria is right in her

opinion of you, in her disdain of you.'

His eyes grew sad. 'If you were generous, madonna--nay, if you were

merely honest--you would not embrace her opinions; you would correct

them; for you have the knowledge that would suffice to do so. But you

are not honest. If you were, there would be no need for me to speak now

in defence of the honour of your absent lord.'

'Is it for you to say I am not honest?' There was now more of sorrow

than indignation in her voice, and tears were gathering in her eyes, to

deepen their sapphire hue. 'God knows I have been honest with you,

Bellarion. It is this very honesty you abuse in your present misjudgment

of me. Oh! Me miserable!' It was the cry of a wounded soul. She sank

down again into her chair. Self-pity welled in her to drown all else. 'I

am to be starved of everything. If ever woman was pitiable, I am that

woman; and you, Bellarion, you of all living men that know my heart, can

find for me only cruelty and reproach!'

It moved him not at all. The plea was too inconsequent and illogical,

and the display of a lack of reason repelled him like a physical defect.

'Your plaint, madonna, is that Facino will not make you a duchess. He

may do so yet if you are patient.'

Her tears had suddenly ceased.

'You know something!' she exclaimed in a hushed voice.

The rogue fooled her with that illusion, whilst refraining from using

words which might afterwards be turned against him.

'I know that you will lose the chance if meanwhile you should cease to

be Facino's wife. If you were so mad as to become the leman of another,

you know as well as I do that the Lord Facino would put you from him.

What should you be then? That is why I am your friend when I think of

the camp at Bergamo for you.'

Slowly she dried her eyes. Carefully she removed all stains of tears. It

consumed a little time. Then she rose and went to him, and took his

hand.

'Thank you, Bellarion, my friend.' Her voice was hushed and tender. 'You

need have no fear for me.' She paused a moment. 'What ... what has my

lord said to you of his intent?'

'Nay, nay,' he laughed, 'I betray no confidences.' The trickster's tone

was a confidence in itself. He swept on. 'You bid me have no fear for

you. But that is not enough. Princes are reckless folk. I'd not have you

remain in jeopardy.'

'Oh! But Bergamo!' she cried out. 'To be encamped in winter!'

'You need not go so far, nor under canvas. In your place, madonna, I

should retire to Melegnano. The castle is at your disposal. It is

pleasanter than Pavia.'

'Pleasanter! In that loneliness?'

'It is the company here that makes it prudent. And you may take the

Princess Valeria and her brother with you. Come, come, madonna. Will you

trifle with fate at such a time? Will you jeopardise a glorious destiny

for the sake of an obese young lordling?'

She considered, her face fretful. 'Tell me,' she begged again, 'what my

lord has divulged to you of his intentions?'

'Have I not said enough already?'

The entrance of Filippo Maria at that moment saved him the need of

further invention. It perturbed him not at all that the Prince's round

white face should darken at the sight of them so close and fond. She was

warned. Her greed of power and honour would curb her wantonness and

ensure her withdrawal to Melegnano as he urged. Bellarion glowed with

the satisfaction of a battle won, nor troubled about the deceit he had

practised.

CHAPTER V

JUSTICE

The Epiphany mummeries were long overpast, the iron hand of winter was

withdrawn from the land, and in the great forest of Pavia, where Gian

Galeazzo had loved to hunt, the trees were breaking into bud before

Bellarion's condition permitted him to think of quitting the ease of

Filippo Maria's castle. His leg had mended well, the knee-joint had

recovered its suppleness, and only a slight limp remained.

He spoke of returning to Bergamo. 'This lotus-eating has endured too

long already,' he told the Prince in answer to the latter's

remonstrances; for Filippo Maria was reluctant to part with one who in

many ways had beguiled for him the tedium of his lonely life, rendered

lonelier than ever before by the withdrawal of the Countess of

Biandrate, who had gone with the Montferrine Princess to Melegnano.

But it was not written that Filippo Maria should be left alone; for on

the very eve of Bellarion's intended departure, Facino himself was borne

into the Castle of Pavia, crippled by an attack of gout of a severity

which had compelled him to leave his camp just as he was preparing to

reap the fruits of his long and patient siege.

He had lost weight, and his face out of which the healthy tan had

departed was grey and drawn. His hair from fulvid that it had been was

almost white. But the spirit within remained unchanged, indomitable, and

intolerant of this enforced inertia of the flesh.

He was put to bed immediately on his arrival, for he was in great pain

and swore that the gout, which he called by all manner of evil names,

had got into his stomach.

'Mombelli warned me there was danger of it.'

'Where is Mombelli?' Bellarion asked. He stood with Filippo Maria by the

canopied bed in a spacious chamber in the northern tower, adjacent to

the Hall of Mirrors.

'Mombelli, devil take his soul, left me a month ago, when I seemed well,

to go to Duke Gian Maria who desired to appoint him his physician. I've

sent for him again to the Duke. Meanwhile some Pavese doctor will be

required to give me ease.' He groaned with pain. Then, recovering,

rapped out his orders to Bellarion. 'It's a mercy you are recovered, for

you are needed at Bergamo. Meanwhile Carmagnola commands there, but he

has my orders to surrender his authority to you on your arrival.'

It was an order which Carmagnola did not relish, as he plainly showed

when Bellarion reached the camp two days later. But he dared not disobey

it.

Bellarion examined the dispositions, but changed nothing. He carried

forward the plans already made by Facino. The siege could be tightened

no further, and, considering the straits to which Malatesta must be

reduced, there could be little point in wasting lives on an assault.

A week after Bellarion's coming there rode into the great camp of green

tents under the walls of Bergamo, a weary, excited fellow all splashed

with mud from the fury of his riding.

Brought, by the guards who had checked his progress, to Facino's large

and handsomely equipped pavilion, pitched beside the racing waters of

the Serio, this slight, swarthy, fierce-eyed man proved to be that

stormy petrel, Giovanni Pusterla of Venegono.

Bellarion rose from the couch, covered by a black bear-skin on which he

had been reclining, and closed the beautifully illuminated copy of

Juvenal's 'Satires,' which had been a parting gift from Filippo Maria.

His gesture dismissed the Swiss halberdiers, who had ushered in this

visitor. The very name of Venegono was of ill omen, and ill-omened was

the man's haggard countenance now, and his own announcement.

'I bring evil tidings, Lord Count.'

'You are consistent,' said Bellarion. 'A great quality.'

Venegono stared at him. 'Give me to drink,' he begged. 'God! How I

thirst. I have ridden from Pavia without pause save to change horse at

Caravaggio.'

'From Pavia!' Bellarion's tone and manner changed; apprehension showed

in both. But not on that account was he neglectful of the needs of his

guest. On an ample square table in mid-tent stood a jug of wine and some

beautiful drinking-cups, their bowls of beaten gold, their stems of

choicely wrought silver, beside a dish of sweetmeats, bread, and a small

loaf of cheese. Bellarion poured a cup of strong red Valtelline.

Venegono drained it.

'Aye, I am consistent, as you say. And so is that hellspawn Gian Maria

Visconti. Of his consistency, mine. By your leave.'

He flung himself wearily into the cushioned fald-stool by the table, and

set down his cup. Bellarion nodded, and resumed his seat on the

bear-skin.

'What has happened in Pavia?'

'In Pavia nothing. Nothing yet. I rode there to warn Facino of what is

happening in Milan, but Facino ... The man is ill. He could do nothing

if he would, so I come on to you.' And now, leaning forward, and

scarcely pausing to draw breath, he launched the news he had ridden so

desperately to bring. 'Della Torre is back in Milan, recalled by Gian

Maria.'

Bellarion waited, but nothing further came.

'Well, man?' he asked. 'Is that all?'

'All? Does it mean so little to you that you ask that? Don't you know

that this damned Guelph, whom Facino banished when he should have hanged

him, has been throughout the inspirer of all the evil that has been

wrought against Facino and against all the Ghibellines of Milan? Don't

you understand that his return bodes ill?'

'What can he do? What can Gian Maria do? Their wings are clipped.'

'They are growing fresh ones.' Venegono came to his feet again, his

weariness forgotten in his excitement. 'Since della Torre's secret

return a month ago, orators have been sent to Theodore of Montferrat, to

the battered Vignati, to the Esti, and even to Estorre Visconti, to

invite them into a league.'

Bellarion laughed. 'Let them league. If they are so mad as to do so,

Facino will smash their league into shards when this Bergamo business is

over. You forget that under his hand is the strongest army in Italy

to-day. We muster over twelve thousand men.'

'My God! I seem to be listening to Facino himself.' Venegono slobbered

in his excitement, his eyes wild. 'It was thus he answered me.'

'Why, then, have troubled to come to me?'

'In the hope that you would see what he will not. You talk as if the

army were all. You forget that Gian Maria is a thing of venom, like the

emblem of his accursed house. Where there is venom and the will to use

it, beware the occasion. If anything should happen to Facino, what hope

will remain for the Ghibellines of Milan?'

'What should happen to Facino? At what are you hinting, man?'

Venegono looked at him between rage and compassion. 'Where is Mombelli?'

he asked. 'Why is he not with Facino now that Facino needs him? Do you

know?'

'But is he not with Facino? Has he not yet arrived?'

'Arrived? Why was he ever withdrawn? To be made physician to the Duke. A

pretext, my friend, to deprive Facino of his healing services. Do you

know that since his coming to Milan he has not been seen? There are

rumours that he is dead, that the Duke has murdered him.'

Bellarion considered. Then he shrugged. 'Your imagination fools you,

Venegono. If Gian Maria proposed to strike Facino, he would surely

attempt something more active and effective.'

'It may be little, I confess. But it is a straw that points the way of

the wind.'

'A straw, indeed,' Bellarion agreed. 'But in any case, what do you

require of me? You have not told me that.'

'That you take a strong detachment of your men and repair at once to

Milan to curb the Duke's evil intentions and to deal with della Torre.'

'For that my lord's orders would be necessary. My duty is here,

Venegono, and I dare not neglect it. Nor is the matter so urgent. It can

wait until Bergamo has been reduced, which will not be long.'

'Too long, it may be.'