The herald bowed upon the withers of his horse. The arrogance, the cold imperiousness of the message struck him dumb with amazement. Amazement was his, too, that Roccaleone should be armed with cannon, as with his own eyes he saw. That those guns were empty he could not guess, nor could Gian Maria when he heard a message that filled him with rage, and would have filled him with dismay, but that he counted upon the mutiny which Gonzaga had pledged himself to stir up.
As the herald was riding away a gruff laugh broke from Fortemani, who stood behind the Count.
Valentina turned to Francesco with eyes that beamed admiration and a singular tenderness.
“Oh, what had I done without you, Messer Francesco?” she cried, for surely the twentieth time since his coming. “I tremble to think how things had gone without your wit and valour to assist me.” She never noticed the malicious smile that trembled on Gonzaga's pretty face. “Where did you find the powder?” she asked innocently, for her mind had not yet caught that humour of the situation that had drawn a laugh from Fortemani.
“I found none,” answered Francesco, smiling from the shadow of his helm. “My threats”--and he waved his hand in the direction of that formidable array of guns--“are as empty as Gian Maria's. Yet I think they will impress him more than his do us. I will answer for it, Madonna, that they deter him from bombarding us--if so be that he ever intended to. So let us go and break our fast with a glad courage.”
“Those guns are empty?” she gasped. “And you could talk so boldly and threaten so defiantly!”
Mirth crept now into her face, and thrust back the alarm, a little of which had peeped from her eyes even as she was extolling Francesco.
“There!” he cried joyously. “You are smiling now, Madonna. Nor have you cause for aught else. Shall we descend? This early morning work has given me the hunger of a wolf.”
She turned to go with him, and in that moment, Peppe, his owlish face spread over with alarm, dashed up the steps from the courtyard.
“Madonna!” he gasped, breathless. “Messer Francesco! The men--Cappoccio---- He is haranguing them. He--is inciting them to treachery.”
So, in gasps, he got out his tale, which swept the mirth again from Valentina's eyes, and painted very white her cheek. Strong and brave though she was, she felt her senses swimming at that sudden revulsion from confidence to fear. Was all indeed ended at the very moment when hope had reached its high meridian?
“You are faint, Madonna; lean on me.”
It was Gonzaga who spoke. But beyond the fact that the words had been uttered, she realised nothing. She saw an arm advanced, and she took it. Then she dragged Gonzaga with her to the side overlooking the courtyard, that with her own eyes she might have evidence of what was toward.
She heard an oath--a vigorous, wicked oath--from Francesco, followed by a command, sharp and rasping.
“To the armoury yonder, Peppe! Fetch me a two-handed sword--the stoutest you can find. Ercole, come with me. Gonzaga---- Nay, you had best stay here. See to Monna Valentina.”
He stepped to her side now, and rapidly surveyed the surging scene below, where Cappoccio was still addressing the men. At sight of Francesco, they raised a fierce yell, as might a pack of dogs that have sighted their quarry.
“To the gates!” was the shout. “Down the drawbridge! We accept the terms of Gian Maria. We will not die like rats.”
“By God, but you shall, if I so will it!” snarled Francesco through his set teeth. Then turning his head in a fever of impatience “Peppe,” he shouted, “will you never bring that sword?”
The fool came up at that moment, staggering under the weight of a great, double-edged two-hander, equipped with lugs, and measuring a good six feet from point to pummel. Francesco caught it from him, and bending, he muttered a swift order in Peppino's ear.
“...In the box that stands upon the table in my chamber,” Gonzaga overheard him say. “Now go, and bring it to me in the yard. Speed you, Peppino!”
A look of understanding flashed up from the hunchback's eyes, and as he departed at a run Francesco hoisted the mighty sword to his shoulder as though its weight were that of a feather. In that instant Valentina's white hand was laid upon the brassart that steeled his fore-arm.
“What will you do?” she questioned, in a whisper, her eyes dilating with alarm.
“Stem the treachery of that rabble,” he answered shortly. “Stay you here, Madonna. Fortemani and I will pacify them--or make an end of them.” And so grimly did he say it that Gonzaga believed it to lie within his power.
“But you are mad!” she cried, and the fear in her eyes increased. “What can you do against twenty?”
“What God pleases,” he answered, and for a second put the ferocity from his heart that he might smile reassurance.
“But you will be killed,” she cried. “Oh! don't go, don't go! Let them have their way, Messer Francesco. Let Gian Maria invest the castle. I care not, so that you do not go.”
Her voice, and the tale it told of sweet anxiety for his fate overruling everything else in that moment--even her horror of Gian Maria--quickened his blood to the pace of ecstasy. He was taken by a wild longing to catch her in his arms--this lady hitherto so brave and daunted now by the fear of his peril only. Every fibre of his being urged him to gather her to his breast, whilst he poured courage and comfort into her ear. He fainted almost with desire to kiss those tender eyes, upturned to his in her piteous pleading that he should not endanger his own life. But suppressing all, he only smiled, though very tenderly.
“Be brave, Madonna, and trust in me a little. Have I failed you yet? Need you then fear that I shall fail you now?”
At that she seemed to gather courage. The words reawakened her confidence in his splendid strength.
“We shall laugh over this when we break our fast,” he cried. “Come, Ercole!” And without waiting for more, he leapt down the steps with an agility surprising in one so heavily armed as he.
They were no more than in time. As they gained the courtyard the men came sweeping along towards the gates, their voices raucous and threatening. They were full of assurance. All hell they thought could not have hindered them, and yet at sight of that tall figure, bright as an angel, in his panoply of glittering steel, with that great sword poised on his left shoulder, some of the impetuousness seemed to fall from them.
Still they advanced, Cappoccio's voice shouting encouragement. Almost were they within range of that lengthy sword, when of a sudden it flashed from his shoulder, and swept a half-circle of dazzling light before their eyes. Round his head it went, and back again before them, handled as though it had been a whip, and bringing them, silent, to a standstill. He bore it back to his shoulder, and alert for the first movement, his blood on fire, and ready to slay a man or two should the example become necessary, he addressed them.
“You see what awaits you if you persist in this,” he said, in a dangerously quiet voice. “Have you no shame, you herd of cowardly animals! You are loud-voiced enough where treason to the hand that pays you is in question; but there, it seems, your valour ends.”
He spoke to them now in burning words. He recapitulated the arguments which yesterday he had made use of to quell the mutinous spirit of Cappoccio. He assured them that Gian Maria threatened more than he could accomplish; and so, perhaps, more than he would fulfil if they were so foolish as to place themselves in his power. Their safety, he pointed out to them, lay here, behind these walls. The siege could not long endure. They had a stout ally in Caesar Borgia, and he was marching upon Babbiano by then, so that Gian Maria must get him home perforce ere long. Their pay was good, he reminded them, and if the siege were soon raised they should be well rewarded.
“Gian Maria threatens to hang you when he captures Roccaleone. But even should he capture it, do you think he would be allowed to carry out so inhuman a threat? You are mercenaries, after all, in the pay of Monna Valentina, on whom and her captains the blame must fall. This is Urbino, not Babbiano, and Gian Maria is not master here. Do you think the noble and magnanimous Guidobaldo would let you hang? Have you so poor an opinion of your Duke? Fools! You are as safe from violence as are those ladies in the gallery up there. For Guidobaldo would no more think of harming you than of permitting harm to come to them. If any hanging there is it will be for me, and perhaps for Messer Gonzaga who hired you. Yet, do I talk of throwing down my arms? What think you holds me here? Interest--just as interest holds you--and if I think the risk worth taking, why should not you? Are you so tame and so poor-spirited that a threat is to vanquish you? Will you become a byword in Italy, and when men speak of cowardice, will you have them say: 'Craven as Monna Valentina's garrison'?”
In this strain he talked to them, now smiting hard with his scorn, now cajoling them with his assurances, and breeding confidence anew in their shaken spirits. It was a thing that went afterwards to the making of an epic that was sung from Calabria to Piedmont, how this brave knight, by his words, by the power of his will and the might of his presence, curbed and subdued that turbulent score of rebellious hinds.