'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.
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.'
But not all the passionate pleading with which he now distressed Bellarion could turn the latter from his clear duty, or communicate to him any of the vague alarms which agitated Venegono. And so, at last, he went his ways in despair, protesting that both Bellarion and Facino were beset with the blindness of those whom the gods wish to destroy.
Bellarion, however, saw in Venegono's warning no more than an attempt to use him for the execution of a private vengeance. Three days later he thought he had confirmation of this. It came in a letter bearing Facino's signature, but penned in the crabbed and pointed hand of the Countess, who had been summoned from Melegnano to minister to her lord. It informed Bellarion that the physician Mombelli had come at last in response to Facino's request, and that Facino hoped soon to be afoot again. Indeed, there was already a perceptible improvement in his condition.
'So much for Venegono's rumours that Mombelli has been murdered,' said Bellarion to himself, and laughed at the scaremongering of that credulous hot-head.
But he thought differently when after another three days a second letter reached him signed by the Countess herself.
'My lord begs you to come to him at once,' she wrote. 'He is so ill that Messer Mombelli despairs of him. Do not lose a moment, or you may be too late.'
He was more deeply stirred by that summons than by anything he could remember. If those who accounted him hard and remorselessly calculating could have seen him in that moment, the tears filming his eyes at the very thought of losing this man whom he loved, they must have formed a gentler opinion of his nature.
He sent at once for Carmagnola, and ordered a strong horse to be saddled and twenty lances to prepare to ride with him. Ride with him, however, they did not. They followed. For he rode like one possessed of devils. In three hours he covered the forty miles of difficult road that lay between Bergamo and Pavia, leaving one horse foundered and arriving on a second one that was spent by the time he reached Filippo Maria's stronghold. Down he flung from it in the great courtyard, and, staggering and bespattered, he mounted the main staircase so wide and of such shallow steps that it was possible to ascend it on horseback.
Without pausing to see the Prince, he had himself conducted straight to Facino's chamber, and there under the damask-hung canopy he found his adoptive father supine, inert, his countenance leaden-hued, looking as if he were laid out in death, save for his stertorous breathing and the fire that still glowed in the eyes under their tufted, fulvid brows.
Bellarion went down on his knees beside the bed, and took, in both his own that were so warm and strong, the cold, heavy hand that lay upon the coverlet.
The grey head rolled a little on its pillow; the ghost of a smile irradiated the strong, rugged face; the fingers of the cold hand faintly pressed Bellarion's.
'Good lad, you have lost no time,' he said, in a weak, rasping voice. 'And there is no time to lose. I am sped. Indeed, my body's dead already. Mombelli says the gout is mounting to my heart.'
Bellarion looked up. Beyond the bed stood the Countess, fretful and troubled. At the foot was Mombelli, and in the background a servant.
'Is this so?' he asked the physician. 'Can your skill avail nothing here?'
'He is in God's hands,' said Mombelli, mumbling indistinctly.
'Send them away,' said Facino, and his eyes indicated Mombelli and the servant. 'There is little time, and I have things to tell you. We must take order for what's to follow.'
The orders did not amount to very much. He required of Bellarion that he should afford the Countess his protection, and he recommended to him also Filippo Maria.
'When Gian Galeazzo died, he left his sons in my care. I go to meet him with clean hands. I have discharged my trust, and dying I hand it on to you. Remember always that Gian Maria is Duke of Milan, and whatever the shortcomings he may show, for your own sake if not for his, practise loyalty to him, as you would have your own captains be loyal to you.'
When at last, wearied, and announcing his desire to rest, Facino bade him go, Bellarion found Mombelli pacing in the Hall of Mirrors, and sent him to Facino.
'I shall remain here within call,' he said, and oblivious of his own fatigue he paced in his turn that curious floor whereon birds and beasts were figured in mosaics under the gaudy flashing ceiling of coloured glass, whence the place derived its name.
There Mombelli found him a half-hour later, when he emerged.
'He sleeps now,' he said. 'The Countess is with him.'
'It is not yet the end?' Bellarion asked.
'Not yet. The end is when God wills. He may linger for some days.'
Bellarion looked sharply at the doctor, considered him, indeed, now for the first time since his arrival. This Mombelli was a man of little more than thirty-five. He had been vigorous of frame, inclining a little to portliness, rubicund if grave of countenance with strong white teeth and bright dark eyes. Bellarion beheld now an emaciated man upon whose shrunken frame a black velvet gown hung in loose folds. His face was pale, his eyes dull; but oddest of all the very shape of his face had changed; his jaw had fallen in, so that nose and chin were brought closer like those of an old man, and when he spoke he hissed and mumbled indistinctly over toothless gums.
'By the Host, man! What has happened to you?'
Mombelli shrank visibly from the questions and from the stern eyes that seemed to search his very soul.
'I ... I ... have been ill,' he faltered. 'Very ill. It is a miracle I am alive to-day.'
'But your teeth, man?'
'I have lost them as you see. A consequence of my disease.'
A horrible suspicion was sprouting in Bellarion's mind, nourished by the memory of the rumour of this man's death which Venegono had reported. He took the doctor by the sleeve of his velvet gown, and drew him towards one of the double windows. His shrinking, his obvious reluctance to undergo this closer inspection, were so much added food to Bellarion's suspicion.
'How do you call this disease?' he asked.
Clearly, from his hesitancy, Mombelli had been unprepared for the question. 'It ... it is a sort of podagric affection,' he mumbled.
'And your thumb? Why is that bandaged?'
Terror leapt to Mombelli's eyes. His toothless jaws worked fearfully. 'That? That is naught. An injury.'
'Take off the bandage. Take it off, man. I desire to see this injury. Do you hear me?'
At last Mombelli with shaking fingers stripped the bandage from his left thumb, and displayed it naked.
Bellarion went white, and his eyes were dreadful. 'You have been tortured, master doctor. Gian Maria has subjected you to his Lent.'
This Lent of Gian Maria's invention was a torment lasting forty days, on each of which one or more teeth were torn from the patient's jaws, then day by day a finger nail, whereafter followed the eyes and finally the tongue, whereupon the sufferer being rendered dumb and unable to confess what was desired, he was shown at last the mercy of being put to death.
Mombelli's livid lips moved frantically, but no words came. He reeled where he stood until he found the wall to steady him, and Bellarion watched him with those dreadful, searching eyes.
'To what end did he torture you? What did he desire of you?'
'I have not said he tortured me. It is not true.'
'You have not said it. No. But your condition says it. You have not said it, because you dare not. Why did he do this? And why did he desist?' Bellarion gripped him by the shoulders. 'Answer me.' To what did the torments undergone suffice to constrain you? Will you answer me?'
'O God!' groaned the physician, sagging limply against the wall, and looking as if he would faint.
But there was no pity in Bellarion's face. Come with me,' he said, and it was almost by main force that he dragged the wretched doctor across that hall out to the gallery, and down the wide steps to the great court. Here under the arcade some men-at-arms of Facino's bodyguard were idling. Into their hands Bellarion delivered Mombelli.
'To the question chamber,' he said shortly.
Mombelli, shattered in nerve and sapped of manhood by his sufferings, cried out, piteously inarticulate. Pitilessly Bellarion waved him away, and the soldiers bore him off, screaming, to the stone chamber under the north-eastern tower. There, in the middle of the uneven stone floor, stood the dread framework of the rack.
Bellarion, who had followed, ordered them to strip him. The men were reluctant to do the office of executioners, but under the eyes of Bellarion, standing as implacable as the god of wrath, they set about it, nevertheless, and all the while the broken man's cries for mercy filled that vaulted place with an ever-mounting horror. At the last, half-naked, he broke from the men's hands and flung himself at Bellarion's feet.
'In the name of the sweet Christ, my lord, take pity on me! I can bear no more. Hang me if you will, but do not let me be tortured again.'
Bellarion looked down on the grovelling, slobbering wretch with an infinite compassion in his soul. But there was no sign of it on his countenance or in his voice.
'You have but to answer my question, sir, and you shall have your wish. You shall be hanged without further suffering. Why did the Duke torture you, and why did the torture cease when it did? To what importunities did you yield?'
'Already you have guessed it, my lord. That is why you use me so! But it is not just. As God's my witness, it is not just. What am I but a poor man caught in the toils of the evil desires of others? As long as God gave me the strength to resist, I resisted. But I could bear no more. There was no price at which I would not have purchased respite from that horror. Death I could have borne had that been all they threatened. But I had reached the end of my endurance of pain. Oh, my lord, if I were a villain there would have been no torture to endure. They offered me bribes, bribes great enough to dazzle a poor man, that would have left me rich for the remainder of my days. When I refused, they threatened me with death unless I did their infamous will. Those threats I defied. Then they subjected me to this protracted agony which the Duke impiously calls his Lent. They drew my teeth, brutally with unutterable violence, two each day until all were gone. Broken and most starved as I was, distracted by pain, which for a fortnight had been unceasing, they began upon my finger-nails. But when they tore the nail from my left thumb, I could bear no more. I yielded to their infamy.'
Bellarion made a sign to the men, and they pulled Mombelli to his feet. But his eyes dared not meet the terrible glance of Bellarion.
'You yielded to their demands that, under the pretence of curing him, you should poison my Lord Facino. That is the thing to which you yielded. But when you say "they" whom do you mean?'
'The Duke Gian Maria and Antonio della Torre.'
Bellarion remembered Venegono's warning—'He is a thing of venom, like the emblem of his house.'
'Poor wretch!' said Bellarion. 'You deserve some mercy, and you shall have it, provided you can undo what you have done.'
'Alas, my lord!' Mombelli groaned, wringing his hands in a passion of despair. 'Alas! There is no antidote to that poison. It works slowly gradually corroding the intestines. Hang me, my lord, and have done. Had I been less of a coward, I would have hanged myself before I did this thing. But the Duke threatened that if I failed him the torture should be resumed and continued until I died of sheer exhaustion. Also he swore that my refusal would not save my Lord Facino, whom he would find other means of despatching.'
Bellarion stood between loathing and compassion. But there was no thought in his mind of hanging this poor wretch, who had been the victim of that malignant Duke.
He uttered an order in cold, level tones: 'Restore him his garments and place him in confinement until I send for him again.'
On that he departed from that underground chamber, and slowly, thoughtfully made his way above.
By the time he reached the courtyard his resolve was taken, though his neck should pay for it: Gian Maria should not escape. For the first and only time in those adventurous years of his did he swerve from the purpose by which he laid his course, and turn his hand to a task that was not more or less directly concerned with its ultimate fulfilment.
And so, without pausing for rest or food, you behold him once more in the saddle, riding hard for Milan on that Monday afternoon.
He conceived that he bore thither the first news of Facino's moribund condition.
But rumour had been ahead of him by a day and a half, and the rumour ran, not that Facino was dying, but that he was already dead.
In all the instances history affords of poetic justice to give pause to those who offend against God and Man, none is more arresting than that of the fate of Gian Maria Visconti. Already on the previous Friday word had reached the Duke, not only from Mombelli, but from at least one of the spies he had placed in his brother's household, that the work of poisoning was done and that Facino's hours were numbered. Gloating with della Torre and Lonate over the assurance that at last the ducal neck was delivered from that stern heel under which so long it had writhed like the serpent of evil under the heel of Saint Michael, Gian Maria had been unable to keep the knowledge to himself. About the court on that same Friday night he spoke unguardedly of Facino as dead or dying, and from the court the news filtered through to the city and was known to all by the morning of Saturday. And that news carried with it a dismay more utter and overwhelming than any that had yet descended upon Milan since Gian Maria had worn the ducal crown. Facino, when wielding the authority of ducal governor, had been the people's bulwark against the extortions, brutalities, and criminal follies of their Duke. When absent and deposed from power, he had still been their hope, and they had possessed their soul as best they could against the day of his return, which they knew must dawn. But Facino dead meant an unbridling of the Duke's bestiality, a free charter to his misrule, and for his people an outlook of utter hopelessness. It may be that they exaggerated in their own minds this calamity. It was for them the end of the world. Despair settled that morning upon the city. The Duke would have laughed if it had been reported to him, because he lacked the wit to perceive that when men are truly desperate catastrophes ensue.
And at once, whilst the great mass of the people were stricken by horror into a dull inertia, there were those who saw that the situation called for action. Of these were members of the leading Ghibelline families of Bagio, of del Maino, Trivulzi, Aliprandi, and others. There was that Bertino Mantegazza, captain of the ducal guard whose face the Duke had one day broken with his iron gauntlet, and fiercest and most zealous of all there was that Giovanni Pusterla of Venegono, whose family had suffered such deep and bitter wrongs at the Duke's hands.
There was no suspicion in the mind of any that the Duke himself was responsible for the death of Facino. It was simply that Facino's death created a situation only to be met by the destruction of the Duke. And this situation the Duke himself had been at such hideous pains to bring about.
And so, briefly to recapitulate here a page of Visconti history, it came to pass that on the Monday morning, which was the first day of the Litany of May, as Gian Maria, gaily clad in his colours of red and white, was issuing from his bedroom to repair to Mass in the Church of San Gotthard, he found in the antechamber a score of gentlemen not latterly seen about his court. Mantegazza, who had command of the entrance, was responsible for their presence.
Before the Duke could comment upon this unusual attendance, perhaps before he had well observed it, three of them were upon him.
'This from the Pusterla!' cried Venegono, and with his dagger clove the Duke's brow, slaying him instantly. Yet before he fell Andrea Bagio's blade was buried in his right thigh, so that presently that white-stockinged leg was as red as its fellow.
As a consequence, Bellarion reaching Milan at dusk that evening found entrance denied him at the Ticinese Gate, which was held by Paolo del Bagio with a strong following of men-at-arms. Not until he had disclosed himself for Facino's lieutenant was he admitted and informed of what had taken place.
The irony of the event provoked in him a terrible mirth.
'Poor purblind fool,' was his comment. 'He never guessed when he was torturing Mombelli that he was torturing him into signing his own death-warrant.' That, and the laugh with which he rode on into the city, left Bagio wondering whether his wits had turned.
He rode through streets in uproar, where almost every man he met was armed. Before the broken door of a half-shattered house hung some revolting bleeding rags, what once had been a man. These were all that remained of Squarcia Giramo, the infamous kennel-master who had been torn into pieces that day by the mob, and finally hung there before his dwelling which on the morrow was to be razed to the ground.
He came to the Old Broletto and the Church of Saint Gotthard, and paused there to survey the Duke's body where it lay under an apronful of roses which had been cast upon it by a harlot. Thence he repaired to the stables of the palace, and by making himself known procured a fresh horse. On this he made his way through the ever-increasing tumult of the streets, back to the Ticinese Gate, and he was away through the darkness to cover for the second time that day the twenty miles that lie between Milan and Pavia.
It was past midnight when, so jaded that he kept his feet by a sheer effort of the will, he staggered into Filippo Maria's bedchamber, ushered by the servant who had preceded him to rouse the Prince.
Filippo Maria sat up in bed, blinking in the candlelight, at that tall, swaying figure that was almost entirely clothed in mud.
'Is that you, Lord Bellarion? You will have heard that Facino is dead—God rest his soul!'
A harsh, croaking voice made him answer! 'Aye, and avenged, Lord Duke.'
A quiver crossed the pale fat face under its sleek black cap of hair. The coarse lips parted. 'Lord ... Lord Duke ... you said?' The high-pitched voice was awe-stricken.
'Your brother Gian Maria is dead, my lord, and you are Duke of Milan.'
'Duke of Milan? I am ...?' The grotesque young face showed bewilderment, confusion, fear. 'And Gian Maria ... Dead, do you say?'
Bellarion did not mince matters. 'He was despatched to hell this morning by some gentlemen in Milan.'
'Jesus-Mary!' croaked the Prince, and fell to trembling. 'Murdered ... And you ...?' He heaved himself higher in the bed with one arm, whilst he flung out the other in accusation. He did not love his brother. He profited greatly by his death. But a Visconti does not permit that others shall lay hands on a Visconti.
Bellarion laughed oddly. He had been forestalled. Perhaps it was as well. No need now to speak of his intentions.
'He was slain on his way to Mass this morning, at just about the hour that I arrived here from Bergamo.'
The accusing arm fell heavily to the Prince's obese flank. The beady, lack-lustre eyes still peered at the young condottiero.
'Almost I thought ... And Giannino is dead ... murdered! God rest him!' The phrase was mechanical. 'Tell me about it.'
Bellarion recited what he knew, then staggered out, on the arm of the servant who was to conduct him to the room prepared for him.
'What a world! What a dunghill!' he muttered as he went. 'And how well the old abbot knows it.Pax multa in cella, foris autem plurima bella!'
Facino Cane, Count of Biandrate, Lord of Novara, Dertona, Varese, Rosate, Valsassina, and of all the lands on Lake Maggiore as far as Vogogna, was buried with great pomp in the Church of San Pietro in Ciel d'Oro.
His chief mourners were his captains summoned from Bergamo to do that last honour to their departed leader. At their head, as mourner in chief, walked Facino's adoptive son Bellarion Cane, Count of Gavi. The others included Francesco Busone of Carmagnola, Giorgio Valperga, Nicolino Marsalia, Werner von Stoffel, and Vaugeois the Burgundian.
Koenigshofen and the Piedmontese Giasone Trotta were absent, having remained at Bergamo with the army.
Thereafter the captains assembled in the Hall of Mirrors to hear the will and last instructions of Facino. To read them came Facino's secretary, accompanied by the Pavese notary who had drawn up the testament three days ago. Thither also came the Countess robed entirely in black and heavily veiled.
The rich and important fief of Valsassina was now disclosed to have been left by Facino to his adoptive son Bellarion, 'in earnest of my love and to recompense his loyalty and worth.' Apart from that and a legacy in money for Carmagnola, the whole of his vast territorial possessions of cities, lands, and fortresses—mostly acquired since he had been deposed in favour of Malatesta—besides the enormous sum of four hundred thousand ducats, were all bequeathed to his widow. He expressed the wish that Bellarion should succeed him in the command of his condotta, and reminding his other captains that strength lies in unity he recommended them to remain united under Bellarion's leadership, at least until the task of restoring order to the duchy should be fulfilled. To his captains also he recommended his widow, putting it upon them to see her firmly established in the dominions he bequeathed to her.
When the reading was done, the captains rose in their places and turned to Madonna Beatrice where she sat like an ebony statue at the table's head. Carmagnola, ever theatrical, ever a man of attitudes, drew his sword with a flourish and laid it on the board.
'Madonna, to you I surrender the authority I held under my Lord Facino, and I leave it in your hands until such time as it shall please you to reinvest me in it.'
The ceremonious gesture caught the fancy of the others. Valperga followed the example instantly, and presently five swords lay naked on the oak. To these, Bellarion, after a moment, a little scornful of this ritual, as he was of all unnecessary displays, added his own.
The Countess rose. She thanked them in a voice that shook with emotion, and one by one restored their weapons to them, naming each as she did so. Bellarion's, however, she left upon the board, wherefore Bellarion, wondering a little, remained when she dismissed the others.
Slowly then she resumed her seat. Slowly she raised and threw back her veil, disclosing a face, which beyond a deeper pallor resulting, perhaps, from contrast with her sable raiment, showed little trace of grief. Her feline eyes considered him, a little frown between their fine black brows.
'You were the last to offer me that homage, Bellarion.' Her voice was slow and softly attuned. 'Why did you hesitate? Are you reluctant?'
'It was a gesture, madonna, that becomes the Carmagnolas of this world. Sincerity requires no symbols, and it was only at the symbol that I boggled. My service and my life are unreservedly at your command.'
There was a pause. Her eyes continued to ponder him. 'Take up your sword,' she said at last.
He moved to do so, and then checked. 'Yourself you restored theirs to the others.'
'The others are not as you. Upon you has fallen the mantle of Facino. How much of that mantle will you wear, Bellarion?'
'As much of it as my lord intended. You have heard his testament, madonna.'
'But not your own interpretation of it.'
'Have I not said that my life and services are at your command, as my lord, to whom I owe everything, enjoined upon me?'
'Your life and services,' she said slowly. Her breast heaved as if in repressed agitation. 'That is much to offer, Bellarion. Do you ask nothing in return?'
'I offer these in return for all that I have received already. It is I who make payment, madonna.'
Again there was a baffled pause. She sighed heavily. 'You make it hard for me, Bellarion.' There was a pathetic break in her voice.
'What do I make hard?'
She rose, and in evident timidity came to stand before him. She set a white hand on the black velvet sleeve of his tunic. Her lovely face, with which time had dealt so mercifully, was upturned to his, and there was now no arrogance in its lines or in her glance. She spoke quietly, wistfully.
'You may think, Bellarion, that with my lord scarce buried this is not the hour for ... what I have to say. And yet, by the very fact of my lord's death and by the very terms of his testament, this is the hour, because it must be the hour of decision. Here and now we must determine what is to follow.'
Tall and coldly stern he stood, looking down upon her who swayed a little there, so close to him that his nostrils were invaded by the subtle essences she used.
'I await your commands, madonna.'
'My commands? My commands? Dear God! What commands have I for you?' She looked away for an instant, then brought her eyes back to his face and her other hand to his other sleeve, so that she held him completely captive now. A faint colour stirred in the pale cheeks. 'My lord has left me great possessions. They might serve as a footstool to help you mount to a great destiny.'
A little smile hovered about his lips as he looked down upon her who waited so breathlessly, her breast now touching his own.
'You are offering me ...' he said, and stopped.
'Can you be in doubt of what I am offering? It is the hour of great decisions, Bellarion, for me and for you.' Closer she pressed, so that her weight was against him. She was deathly pale again, her eyes were veiled. 'In unity is strength. That was Facino's last reminder to us. And in what unity could there be greater strength than in ours? Facino's army, the strongest that ever followed him, is solidly behind us so that we stand together. With that and my resources you need set no bounds to your ambition. You may be Duke of Milan if you will. You may even realise Galeazzo's dream and make yourself King of Italy.'
His hovering smile settled and deepened. But the dark eyes grew sad.
'The world and you have never suspected,' he said gently, 'that I am not really ambitious. You have witnessed my rise in four short years from a poor nameless, starveling scholar to knighthood, lordships, wealth, and fame; and, therefore, you imagine that I am one who has striven for the bounties of Fortune. It is not so, madonna. I have laboured for ends that are nowise bound up with the hope of any of these rewards, which I hold cheap. They are hollow vanities, empty bubbles, gewgaws to delight the children of the world. Possessions come to me, titles, honours, which deceive me no more than I desired them.'
She drew away from him a little, and looked at him almost in awe. 'God! You talk like a monk!'
'It is possible that I think like one, and very natural remembering how I was nurtured. There is one task, one purpose which has detained me in this world of men. When that is accomplished, I think I shall go back to the cell where there is peace.'
'You!' Her hands had fallen from his arms. She gasped now in her amazement. 'With the world at your feet if you choose! To renounce all? To go back to the chill loneliness and joylessness of monkhood? Bellarion, you are mad.'
'Or else sane, madonna. Who shall judge?'
'And love, Bellarion? Is there no love in the world? Does that not lend reality to all these things that you deem shams?'
'Does it heal the vanity of the world?' he cried. 'It is a great power, as I perceive. For love men will go mad, they will become beasts: they will murder and betray.'
'Heretic!'
That startled him a little. Once before he had been dubbed heretic for beliefs to which he clung with assurance; and experience had come to lay bare his heresy to his own eyes.
'Upon occasion, madonna, we have talked of love, you and I. Had I given heed, had your beauty beglamoured me, what a treacherous thing should I not have been in Facino's eyes! Do you wonder that I mistrust love as I mistrust all else the world can offer me?'
'While Facino lived, that ...' She broke off. Her eyes were on the ground, her hands now folded in her lap. She had drawn away from him a little and leaned against the table's edge. 'Now ...' She parted her hands and held them out, leaving him to guess her mind.
'Now his behests are upon me, and they shall be obeyed as if he still lived.'
'What is there in his behests against ... against what I was offering? Am I not commended to you by his testament? Am I not a part of his legacy to you?'
'The service of you is; and your loyal servant, madonna, you shall ever find me.' She turned aside with a little gesture of irritation, and remained silent, thoughtful.
A sleek secretary broke in upon them. The Count of Pavia commanded the Lord Bellarion's presence in the library. A courier had just arrived from Milan with grave news.
'Say to his highness that I come.'
The secretary withdrew.
'You give me leave, madonna?'
She stood leaning sideways against the heavy table, her face averted. 'Aye, you may go.' Her voice rasped.
But he waited yet a moment. 'The sword, madonna? Will you not arm me with your own hands for your service?'
She turned her head to look at him again, and there was now a curl of disdain on her pale lips.
'I thought you looked askance on symbols. Was not that your profession?' She paused, but, without waiting for his answer, added: 'Take up your sword, yourself, you that are so fully master of your own destinies.'
And on that she turned and went, trailing her funereal draperies over the gay mosaics of that patterned floor.
He remained where she left him until she had passed out of that great hall and the door had closed. Then, at last, he fetched a sigh and went to restore his blade to its scabbard.
His thoughts were on Facino hardly cold in the grave, on this widow who had so shamelessly wooed him, yet in terms which demanded as a condition the satisfaction of her inordinate ambition; and lastly on that obese young Prince who waited for him. And in the mirror of his mind he saw a reflection of a scene now some months old. He saw again the glance of those beady, lecherous eyes lambent about Facino's Countess.
Inspiration came to him of how best he might gratify her vast ambition, her greed of greatness. Her suggestion to him had been that he should make her Duchess of Milan, and Duchess of Milan he would make her yet.
On that half-ironic thought he came to the library where the Prince waited. Filippo Maria was seated at a table near one of the windows. Spread before him were some parchments, writing-materials, and a horn of unicorn that was almost a yard long, of solid ivory, one of the library's most treasured possessions.
The Prince was more than usually pallid, his glance unsteady, his manner nervous and agitated. Perfunctorily he made the inquiries concerning the obsequies of Facino which courtesy demanded. He reiterated excuses already made for his own absence from the ceremony, an absence really based on resentment of the yoke which Facino had imposed upon him. That done, he picked up a parchment from the table.
'Here's news,' he said, and his voice trembled. 'Estorre Visconti has been created Duke of Milan.' He paused, and the little dark eyes blinked up at the tall Bellarion standing composed at his side. 'You knew already?'
'Not so, highness.'
'And you show no surprise?'
'It is a bold step, and it may cost Messer Estorre his head. But it was to be expected from what had gone before.'
The beady eyes returned to the parchment, which shook in the podgy fingers.
'Fra Berto Caccia, the Bishop of Piacenza, preached a sermon to the people lauding the murder of my brother, and promising in Estorre's name a Golden Age for Milan, with immunity from taxation. Thereupon they laid at his bastard feet the keys of the city, the standard of the republic, and the ducal sceptre.' He dropped the parchment, and sat back folding plump, white hands across his paunch. 'This calls for action, speedily.'
'We can provide action enough to surfeit Messer Estorre.'
'Ha!' The great flabby face grew almost kindly, the little eyes beamed upon the condottiero. 'Serve me well in this, Bellarion, and you shall know gratitude.'
Bellarion's gesture seemed to wave the notion of reward aside. He came straight to facts. 'We can withdraw eight thousand men from Bergamo. The place is at the point of surrender, and four thousand will well suffice to tighten the last grip upon the Malatesta vitals. Perhaps the Lord Estorre has not included that in his calculations. With eight thousand men we can sweep him out of Milan at our pleasure.'
'And you'll give orders? You'll give orders at once? The army, they tell me, is now in your control. Facino's authority has descended to you, and has been accepted by your brother captains.'
And now this arch-dissembler went to work.
'Hardly so much, highness. Facino's captains have sworn fealty, not to me, but to the Lady Beatrice.'
'But ... But you, then?' The news dismayed him a little. 'What place is yours?'
'At your highness's side, if your highness commands me.'
'Yes, yes. But whom do you command? Where, exactly, do you stand now?'
'At the head of the army in any enterprise into which the Countess sends her captains.'
'The Countess?' The Prince shifted his bulk uneasily in his chair, slewing round so as to face the soldier more fully. 'What then if ... What if the Countess should not ...' He waved his fat hands helplessly.
'It is not likely that the Countess should oppose your own wishes, highness.'
'Not likely? But—Lord of Heaven!—it's possible.' He heaved himself up, nervous, agitated. 'I must know. I must ... I'll send for her.' He reached for a hand-bell on the table.
But Bellarion's hand closed over his own before he could ring.
'A moment, Lord Prince. Before you send for the Lady Beatrice, had you not best consider precisely what you will say to her?'
'What is to say beyond discovering her disposition towards me.'
'Can you entertain a doubt upon that, Lord Prince?' Bellarion was smiling. Their hands came away together from the bell, and fell apart. 'Her disposition towards your potency is, to my knowledge, of the very kindliest. Such, indeed, that—I'll be frank with you—I found it necessary once to remind her of her duty to her lord.'
'Ah!' The fat pale face quivered into something akin to malevolence. The Prince remembered a sudden coolness in the Countess and her removal to Melegnano, and perceived in this meddler's confession the explanation of it. 'By Saint Ambrose, that was bold of you!'
'I am accounted bold,' Bellarion reminded him, deeming it necessary.
'Aye, aye!' The shifty eyes fell away uncomfortably under his glance. 'But if she is kindly disposed, then ...'
'I know that she was, highness, and may be rendered so again. Though perhaps less easily now than heretofore.'
'Less easily? Why so?'
'As Facino's widow, she is in wealth and power the equal of many a prince in Italy. She has considerable dominions ...'
'Torn by Facino from the great heritage left by the Duke my father.' In that rare burst of indignation his whole bulk quivered like a great jelly.
'They might be restored to the ducal crown by peaceful arts.'
'Peaceful arts? What arts? Will you be plain?'
But the time for direct answers was not yet. 'And not only has the Countess lands, but the control of a vast fortune. Some four hundred thousand ducats. You will need money, highness, for the pay of this great army now under Bergamo, and your own treasury will hardly supply it. There is taxation. But your highness knows the ills that wait on that for a prince newly come into his own. And not only the lands and money of which your highness stands in need, but the men also does the Countess bring.'
'You but repeat yourself.'
Bellarion looked at him, and smiled. Never, do I believe, did a Prince find a bride more richly dowered.'
'A bride?' The youth was startled, terrified almost. 'A bride?'
'Would less content your highness? Would you be satisfied to receive the assistance of the Countess's possessions, when you may make them your own and wield them at your pleasure?'
He stared, his jaw fallen. Then slowly he brought his lips together again, and licked them thoughtfully, screwing up his mean eyes.
'You are proposing that I should take to wife Facino's widow, who is twice my age?' He asked the question very slowly, as if pondering each word of it.
Bellarion laughed. 'Not proposing it, highness. It is not for me to make such proposals. I do not even know what the lady will say. But if she is willing to become Duchess of Milan, she can provide the means to make you Duke.'
Filippo Maria sat down suddenly. The sweat broke from his pale brow. He mopped it with his hand, disturbing the black fringe that disfigured it. Then, lost in thought, he stroked the loose folds of his enormous chin, and gradually his eyes kindled.
At long length he put forth his hand again to the bell. This time Bellarion did not interfere. He perceived in the act the young Prince's surrender to the forces of greed and lust which Bellarion himself had loosed against him.
He took his leave, and went out with the sad knowledge that greed and wantonness would make of the woman, too, a ready prey.
His work was done. She should have the thing she coveted, and find in it her punishment ...
As Bellarion had calculated and disposed, so things fell out, and Filippo Maria Visconti in the twenty-second year of his age led to the altar the widowed Countess of Biandrate who was thirty-nine. As a young girl, she had married, at the bidding of ambition, a man who was twenty years her senior; as a middle-aged woman now, and for the same reason, she married one who was almost as much her junior. She had not the foresight to perceive that the grievance on the score of disparity of years which she had nursed against Facino would be nursed against herself to her ultimate destruction by this sly, furtive, and cruel Prince to whom now she gave herself and her vast possessions. That, however, is no part of the story I have set myself to tell.
Estorre Visconti defended in vain his usurped dominion against Gian Maria's legitimate successor. Filippo Maria, with Carmagnola in command of some seven thousand men, laid siege to Milan, whilst Bellarion went north to make an end of the Bergamo resistance. Because in haste to have done, he granted Malatesta easy terms of surrender, permitting him to ride out of the city with the honours of war, lance on thigh. Thereafter, having restored order in Bergamo and left there a strong garrison under an officer of trust, he marched with the main army to join Filippo Maria who was conducting operations from the mills on Monte Lupario, three miles from Milan. Some four weeks already had he spent there, with little progress made. Estorre had enrolled and constrained to the defence of the city almost every man of an age to bear arms. It was necessary to make an end, and Bellarion himself with a few followers entered the Castle of Porta Giovia which was being held against Estorre by Vimercati, the castellan. From its walls, having attracted the people by trumpet-blast, he published Filippo Maria's proclamation, wherein the Prince solemnly undertook that if the city were at once surrendered to him it should have nothing to fear; that there should be no pillage, executions, or other measures punitive of this resistance to the State's legitimate lord.
The news flew in every direction, with the result that before nightfall all those whom Estorre had constrained to follow him had fallen away, and he was left with only his mercenaries. With these, next morning, he hacked a way out through the Comasina Gate as the people were throwing open to the new Duke the gates of the city on the other side.
Filippo Maria entered with a comparatively small following and in the wake of a train of bread-carts sent ahead to relieve the famine which already was beginning to press upon the inhabitants. The acclamations of 'Live the Duke!' quieted his natural timidity as he rode through the streets to shut himself up in the Castle of Porta Giovia, which remained ever afterwards his residence. Not for Filippo Maria the Palace of the Old Broletto or the gaiety of courts. His dark, scheming, yet pusillanimous nature craved the security of a stronghold.
For assisting him to the ducal throne, and no doubt to ensure their continued support, he rewarded his captains generously, and none more generously than Bellarion to whom he considered that he owed everything. Bellarion was not only confirmed in the lordship of Valsassina in feud, for himself and his heirs forever, but the Duke raised the fief into a principality.
Bellarion remained the Duke's marshal in chief and military adviser, and it was by the dispositions which he made during that summer and autumn of 1412 that the lands of the duchy were finally cleared of the insurgent brigands who had renewed their depredations.
Peace being restored at home, and industry being liberated at last from the trammels that had lain upon it since the death of Gian Galeazzo, prosperity flowed swiftly back to the State of Milan, and the people heaped blessings upon the shy, furtive ruler of whom they saw so little.
It is possible that Filippo Maria would have been content to rest for the present upon what was done, to leave the frontiers of the duchy as he found them, and to dismiss the greater part of the costly condottas in his employ. But Bellarion at his elbow goaded him to further enterprise, and met his sluggish reluctance with a culminating argument that shamed him into action.
'Will you leave, in tranquil possession, the brigands who have encroached upon the glorious patrimony built up by your illustrious father? Will you dishonour his memory and be false to your name, Lord Duke?'
Thus, and similarly, Bellarion, with a heat that was purely histrionic. He cared no more for the integrity of Gian Galeazzo's patrimony than he cared for that of the Kingdom of England. What he cared for was that the order to dispossess those tyrants would sound the knell of Theodore of Montferrat. Thus, at last, should he be enabled to complete the service, to which five years ago he had dedicated himself, and to which unfalteringly, if obscurely and tortuously, he had held. Very patiently had he waited for this hour, when, yielding at last to his bold importunities, the Duke summoned a council of the officers of State and the chief condottieri to determine the order in which action should be taken.
At once Bellarion urged that a beginning should be made by recovering Vercelli, than which few strongholds were of more importance to the safety of the duchy.
It provoked a protest from Beccarla, who was the Duke's Minister of State.
'An odd proposal this from you, Lord Bellarion, remembering that it was by your own action in concert with the Count of Biandrate that the Marquis Theodore was placed in possession of Vercelli.'
Bellarion crushed him with his logic. 'Not odd, sir, natural. Then I was on the other side. And if, being on the other side, I conceived it important that Theodore should hold Vercelli, now that I am opposed to him I conceive it equally important that he should be driven from it.'
There was a pause. Filippo Maria, somnolent in his great chair, looked round the group. 'What is the military view?' he asked. He had noticed that not one of the captains had voiced an opinion. He was answered now by the burly Koenigshofen.
'I have no views that are not Bellarion's. I have followed him long enough to know that he's a safe man to follow.'
Giasone Trotta, uninvited, expressed the same sentiment. Filippo Maria turned to Carmagnola, who sat silent and thoughtful.
'And you, sir?' he asked.
Carmagnola reared his blond head, and Bellarion braced himself for battle. But to his amazement, for once—for the first time in their long association—Carmagnola was on his side.
'I am of Bellarion's mind, magnificent. We who were with my Lord Facino when he made alliance with Theodore of Montferrat know Theodore for a crafty, daring man of boundless ambition. His occupation of Vercelli is a menace to the peace of the duchy.'
After that the other captains, Valperga and Marsilio, who had been wavering, threw in their votes, so that the military opinion was solidly unanimous.
Filippo Maria balanced the matter for a moment.
'You are not forgetting, sirs, that for Theodore's good behaviour I have in my hands a precious hostage, in the person of his nephew, the Marquis Gian Giacomo, in whose name Theodore rules. You laugh, Bellarion!'
'That hostage was procured to ensure, not the good faith of Theodore, but the safety of the real Prince of Montferrat. Carmagnola has told your magnificence that Theodore is crafty, daring, and ambitious. It is a part of his ambition to make himself absolute sovereign where at present he is no more than Regent. Let your magnificence judge if the thought of harm to the hostage you hold would be a deterrent to him.'
A while still they debated. Then Filippo Maria announced that he would take thought and make known his decision when it was reached. On that he dismissed them.
As they went from the council chamber the captains witnessed the phenomenon of a yet closer unity between Bellarion and Carmagnola. The new Prince of Valsassina linked arms with Francesco Busone, and drew him away.
'You will do a service in this matter, Ser Francesco, if you send word to Lady Valeria and her brother urging them to come at once to Milan and petition the Duke to place Gian Giacomo upon his throne. He is of full age, and only his absence from Montferrat enables Theodore to continue in the Regency.'
Carmagnola looked at him suspiciously. 'Why do you not send that message, yourself?'
Bellarion shrugged and spread his hands a little. 'I have not the confidence of the Princess. A message from me might be mistrusted.'
Carmagnola's fine blue eyes pondered him still with that suspicious glance. 'What game do you play?' he asked.
'I see that you mistrust me, too.'
'I ever have done.'
'It's a compliment,' said Bellarion.
'If it is, I don't perceive it.'
'If you did, you wouldn't pay it. You are direct, Carmagnola; and for that I honour you. I am not direct, and yet you may come to honour me for that too when you understand it, if you ever do. You ask what game I play. A game which began long ago, in which this is the last move. The alliance I brought about between Facino and Theodore was a move in this game; the securing of the person of Gian Giacomo of Montferrat as a hostage was another; to make it possible for Theodore to occupy Vercelli and make himself Lord of Genoa, yet another. My only aim was to unbridle his greed so that he should become a menace to the duchy, against such a day as this, when on the Duke's side it is my duty to advise his definite destruction.'
Carmagnola's eyes were wide, amazement overspread his florid handsome face.
'By the bones of Saint Ambrose, you play mighty deep!'
Bellarion smiled. 'I am frank with you. I explain myself. It is tedious but necessary so as to conquer your mistrust and procure your cooperation.'
'To make me a pawn in this game of yours?'
'That is to describe yourself unflatteringly. Francesco Busone of Carmagnola is no man's pawn.'
'No, by God! I am glad you perceive that.'
'Should I have explained myself if I did not?' said Bellarion to assure him of a fact of which clearly he was far from sure.
'Tell me why you so schemed and plotted?'
Bellarion sighed. 'To amuse myself, perhaps. It interests me. Facino said of me that I was a natural strategist. This broader strategy upon the great field of life gives scope to my inclinations.' He was thoughtful, chin in hand. 'I do not think there is more in it than that.' And abruptly he asked: 'You'll send that message?'
Carmagnola too considered. There was a dream that he had dreamed, a game that he could play, making in his turn a pawn of this crafty brother captain who sought to make a pawn of him.
'I'll go to Melegnano in person,' he announced.
He went, and there dispelled the fretful suspense in which the Princess Valeria waited for a justice of which she almost despaired.
He dealt in that directness which was the only thing Bellarion found to honour in him. But the directness now was in his manner only.
'Lady, I come to bid you take a hand in your own and your brother's reinstatement. Your petition to the Duke is all that is needed now to persuade him to the step which I have urged; to march against the usurper Theodore and cast him out.
It took her breath away. 'You have urged this! You, my lord? Let me send for my brother that he may thank you, that he may know that he has at least one stout brave friend in the world.'
'His friend and your servant, madonna.' He bore her white hand to his lips, and there were tears in her eyes as she looked upon his bowed handsome head. 'My hopes, my plans, my schemes for you are to bear fruit at last.'
'Your schemes for me?'
Her brows were knit over her moist dark eyes. He laughed. A jovial, debonair, and laughter-loving gentleman, this Francesco Busone of Carmagnola.
'So as to provide a cause disposing the Duke of Milan to proceed against the Regent Theodore. The hour has come, madonna. It needs but your petition to Filippo Maria, and the army marches. So that I command it, I will see justice done to your brother.'
'So that you command it? Who else should?' Carmagnola's bright face was overcast. 'There is Bellarion Cane.'
'That knave!' She recoiled, her countenance troubled. 'He is the Regent's man. It was he who helped the Regent to Vercelli and to the lordship of Genoa.'
'Which he never could have done,' Carmagnola assured her, 'but that I abetted him. I saw that thus I should provide a reason for action against the Regent when later I should come to be on the Duke's side.'
'Ah! That was shrewd! To feed his ambition until he overreached himself.'
Carmagnola strutted a little. 'It was a deep game. But we are at the last move in it. If you mistrust this Bellarion ...'
'Mistrust him!' She laughed a bitter little laugh, and she poured forth the tale of how once he had been a spy sent by Theodore to embroil her, and how thereafter he had murdered her one true and devoted friend Count Spigno.
Feeding her mistrust and bringing Gian Giacomo fully to share it, Carmagnola conducted them to Milan and procured audience for them with the Duke.
Filippo Maria received her in a small room in the very heart of the fortress, a room to which he had brought something of the atmosphere of his library at Pavia. Here were the choicely bound manuscripts, and the writing-table with its sheaves of parchment, and its horn of unicorn, which as all the world knows is a prophylactic against all manner of ills of the flesh and the spirit. Its double window looked out upon the court of San Donato where the October sunshine warmed the red brick to the colour of the rose.
He gave her a kindly welcome, then settled into the inscrutable inertia of an obese Eastern idol whilst she made her prayer to him.
When it was done he nodded slowly, and despatched his secretary in quest of the Prince of Valsassina. The name conveyed nothing to her, for she had not heard of Bellarion's latest dignity.
'You shall have my decision later, madonna. It is almost made already, and in the direction you desire. When I have conferred with the Prince of Valsassina upon the means at our command, I will send for you again. Meanwhile the Lord of Carmagnola will conduct you and your brother to my Duchess, whom it will delight to care for you.' He cleared his throat. 'You have leave to go,' he added in his shrill voice.
They bowed, and were departing, when the returning secretary, opening the door, and holding up the arras that masked it, announced: 'The Prince of Valsassina.'
He came in erect and proud of bearing, for all that he still limped a little. His tunic was of black velvet edged with dark brown fur, a heavy gold chain hung upon his breast, a girdle of beaten gold gripped his loins and carried his stout dagger. His hose were in white and blue stripes.