And all that time, until the sun had reached him and included him in the picture it was awakening, the Count of Aquila sat in his saddle, with thoughtful eyes uplifted to the fortress.
Then, Lanciotto following him, he walked his horse round the western side, where the torrent was replaced by a smooth arm of water, for which a cutting had been made to complete the isolation of the crag of Roccaleone. But here, where the castle might more easily have become vulnerable, a blank wall greeted him, broken by no more than a narrow slit or two midway below the battlements. He rode on towards the northern side, crossing a footbridge that spanned the river, and at last coming to a halt before the entrance tower. Here again the moat was formed by the torrential waters of the mountain stream.
He bade his servant rouse the inmates, and Lanciotto hallooed in a voice that nature had made deep and powerful. The echo of it went booming up to scare the birds on the hillside, but evoked no answer from the silent castle.
“They keep a zealous watch,” laughed the Count. “Again, Lanciotto.”
The man obeyed him, and again and again his deep voice rang out like a trumpet-call before sign was made from within that it had been heard. At length, above the parapet of the tower appeared a stunted figure with head unkempt, as grotesque almost as any of the gargoyles beneath, and an owlish face peered at them from one of the crenels of the battlement, and demanded, in surly, croaking tones their business. Instantly the Count recognised Peppe.
“Good morrow, fool,” he bade him.
“You, my lord?” exclaimed the jester.
“You sleep soundly at Roccaleone,” quoth Francesco. “Bestir that knavish garrison of yours, and bid the lazy dogs let down the bridge. I have news for Monna Valentina.”
“At once, Excellency,” the fool replied, and would have gone upon the instant but that Francesco recalled him.
“Say, Peppe, a knight--the knight she met at Acquasparta, if you will. But leave my name unspoken.”
With the assurance that he would obey his wishes Peppe went his errand. A slight delay ensued, and then upon the battlements appeared Gonzaga, sleepy and contentious, attended by a couple of Fortemani's knaves, who came to ask the nature of Francesco's business.
“It is with Monna Valentina,” answered him Francesco, raising head and voice, so that Gonzaga recognised him for the wounded knight of Acquasparta, remembered and scowled.
“I am Monna Valentina's captain here,” he announced, with arrogance. “And you may deliver to me such messages as you bear.”
There followed a contention, conducted ill-humouredly on the part of Gonzaga and scarcely less so on the Count's, Francesco stoutly refusing to communicate his business to any but Valentina, and Gonzaga as stoutly refusing to disturb the lady at that hour, or to lower the bridge. Words flew between them across the waters of the moat, and grew hotter at each fresh exchange, till in the end they were abruptly terminated by the appearance of Valentina herself, attended by Peppino.
“What is this, Gonzaga?” she inquired, her manner excited, for the fool had told her that it was the knight Francesco who sought admittance, and at the very mention of the name she had flushed, then paled, then started for the ramparts. “Why is this knight denied admittance since he bears a message for me?” And from where she stood she sought with admiring eyes the graceful shape of the Count of Aquila--the knight-errant of her dreams. Francesco bared his head, and bent to the withers of his horse in courteous greeting. She turned to Gonzaga impatiently.
“For what do you wait?” she cried. “Have you not understood my wishes? Let the bridge be lowered.”
“Bethink you, Madonna,” he remonstrated. “You do not know this man. He may be a spy of Gian Maria's--a hireling paid to betray us.”
“You fool,” she answered sharply. “Do you not see that it is the wounded knight we met that day you were escorting me to Urbino?”
“What shall that signify?” demanded he. “Is it proof of his honesty of purpose or loyalty to you? Be advised, Madonna, and let him deliver his message from where he is. He is safer there.”
She measured him with a determined eye.
“Messer Gonzaga, order them to lower the bridge,” she bade him.
“But, lady, bethink you of your peril.”
“Peril?” she echoed. “Peril from two men, and we a garrison of over twenty? Surely the man is a coward who talks so readily of perils. Have the drawbridge lowered.”
“But if----” he began, with a desperate vehemence, when again she cut him short.
“Am I to be obeyed? Am I mistress, and will you bid them lower the bridge, or must I, myself, go see to it?”
With a look of despairing anger and a shrug of the shoulders he turned from her, and despatched one of his men with an order. A few moments later, with a creaking of hinges and a clanking of chains, the great bridge swung down and dropped with a thud to span the gulf. Instantly the Count spurred his horse forward, and followed by Lanciotto rode across the plank and under the archway of the entrance tower into the first courtyard.
Now, scarcely had he drawn rein there when through a door at the far end appeared the gigantic figure of Fortemani, half-clad and sword in hand. At sight of Francesco the fellow leaped down a half-dozen steps, and advanced towards him with a burst of oaths.
“To me!” he shouted, in a voice that might have waked the dead. “Olá! Olá! What devil's work is this? How come you here? By whose orders was the bridge let down?”
“By the orders of Monna Valentina's captain,” answered Francesco, wondering what madman might be this.
“Captain?” cried the other, coming to a standstill and his face turning purple. “Body of Satan! What captain? I am captain here.”
The Count looked him over in surprise.
“Why, then,” said he, “you are the very man I seek. I congratulate you on the watch you keep, Messer Capitano. Your castle is so excellently patrolled that had I been minded for a climb I had scaled your walls and got within your gates without arousing any of your slumbering sentries.”
Fortemani eyed him with a lowering glance. The prosperity of the past four days had increased the insolence inherent in the man.
“Is that your affair?” he growled menacingly. “You are over-bold, sir stranger, to seek a quarrel with me, and over-pert to tell me how I shall discharge my captaincy. By the Passion! You shall be punished.”
“Punished--I?” echoed Francesco, on whose brow there now descended a scowl as black as Ercole's own.
“Aye, punished, young sir. Ercole Fortemani is my name.”
“I have heard of you,” answered the Count contemptuously, “and of how you belie that name of yours, for they tell me that a more drunken, cowardly, good-for-nothing rogue is not to be found in Italy--no, not even in the Pope's dominions. And have a care how you cast the word 'punishment' at your betters, animal. The moat is none so distant, and the immersion may profit you. For I'll swear you've not been washed since they baptized you--if, indeed, you be a son of Mother Church at all.”
“Sangue di Cristo!” spluttered the enraged bully, his face mottled. “This to me? Come down from that horse.”
He laid hold of Francesco's leg to drag him to the ground, but the Count wrenched it free by a quick motion that left a gash from his spur upon the captain's hands. Simultaneously he raised his whip, and would have laid the lash of it across the broad of Fortemani's back--for it had angered him beyond words to have a ruffian of this fellow's quality seeking to ruffle it with him--but at that moment a female voice, stern and imperative, bade them hold in their quarrel.
Fortemani fell back nursing his lacerated hand and muttering curses, whilst Francesco turned in the direction whence that voice had come. Midway on the flight of stone steps he beheld Valentina, followed by Gonzaga, Peppe, and a couple of men-at-arms, descending from the battlements.
Calm and queenly she stood, dressed in a camorra of grey velvet with black sleeves, which excellently set off her handsome height. Gonzaga was leaning forward, speaking into her ear, and for all that his voice was subdued, some of his words travelled down to Francesco on the still, morning air.
“Was I not wise, Madonna, in that I hesitated to admit him? You see what manner of man he is.”
The blood flamed in Francesco's cheeks, nor did it soften his chagrin to note the look which Valentina flashed down at him.
Instantly he leapt to the ground, and flinging his reins to Lanciotto he went forward to the foot of that stone staircase, his broad hat slung back upon his shoulders, to meet that descending company.
“Is this seemly, sir?” she questioned angrily. “Does it become you to brawl with my garrison the moment you are admitted?”
The blood rose higher in Francesco's face, and now suffused his temples and reached his hair. Yet his voice was well restrained as he made answer:
“Madonna, this knave was insolent.”
“An insolence that you no doubt provoked,” put in Gonzaga, a dimple showing on his woman's cheek. But the sterner rebuke fell from the lips of Valentina.