Gonzaga left him. Francesco would not make his rounds for another hour, and by then it would not matter what Fortemani told him. In one way or another he would be able to account for his action.
He crossed the courtyard, and mounted the steps leading to his own chamber. Once there, he closed and barred the door. He kindled a light, and flinging the letter on the table, he sat and contemplated its exterior and the great red seal that gleamed in the yellow light of his taper.
So! This knight-errant, this man whom he had accounted a low-born hind, was none other than the famous Count of Aquila, the well-beloved of the people of Babbiano, the beau-ideal of all military folk from Sicily to the Alps. And he had never suspected it! Dull-witted did he now account himself. Enough descriptions had he heard of that famous condottiero, that mirror of Italian chivalry. He might have known that there did not live two men of such commanding ways as he had seen instanced at Roccaleone. What was his object there? Was it love of Valentina, or was it----? He paused, as in his mind he made a swift review of the politics of Babbiano. A sudden possibility occurred to him that made his eyes sparkle and his hands tremble with eagerness. Was this but a political scheme to undermine his cousin's throne, to which Gonzaga had heard it rumoured that Francesco del Falco was an aspirant? If it were so, what a vengeance would be his to unmask him! How it must humble Valentina! The letter lay before him. Within it the true facts would be disclosed. What did his friend Fanfulla write him?
He took the letter up and made a close inspection of the seal. Then softly, quietly, slowly he drew his dagger. If his suspicions were unfounded, his dagger heated in the taper should afford him the means to conceal the fact that he had tampered with that missive. He slipped his blade under the seal, and worked it cautiously until it came up and set the letter open. He unfolded it, and as he read his eyes dilated. He seemed to crouch on his chair, and the hand that held the paper shook. He drew the candle nearer, and shading his eyes he read it again, word for word:
“MY DEAR LORD COUNT,--I have delayed writing until the time when the signs I observed should have become more definite, as they have now done, so that I may delay no longer. This, then, goes by the hand of Zaccaria, to tell you that to-day has word been sent Gian Maria giving him three days in which to return to Babbiano, or to abandon all hope of his crown, of which the people will send the offer then to you at Aquila, where you are believed to be. So now, my dear lord, you have the tyrant at your mercy, tossed between Scylla and Charybdis. Yours it is to resolve how you will act; but I rejoice in being the one to send you word that your presence at Roccaleone and your stubborn defence of the fortress has not been vain, and that presently you are to reap the well-earned reward of it. The people have been stirred to this extreme action by the confusion prevailing here.
“News has reached us that Caesar Borgia is arming, at Rome, a condotta to invade Babbiano, and the people are exasperated at Gian Maria's continued absence in such a season. They are short-sighted in this, for they overlook the results that must attend the alliance with Urbino. May God protect and prosper your Excellency, whose most devoted servant is
“FANFULLA DEGLI AROIPRETI.”
CHAPTER XXII. A REVELATION
“Francesco,” said Valentina, and the name came from her lips as if it were an endearment, “why that frowning, careworn look?”
They were in the dining-room alone, where the others had left them, and they were still seated at the table at which they had supped. Francesco raised his dark, thoughtful eyes, and as they lighted now on Valentina the thoughtfulness that was in them gave place to tenderness.
“I am fretted by this lack of news,” he acknowledged. “I would I knew what is being done in Babbiano. I had thought that ere now Caesar Borgia had stirred Gian Maria's subjects into some manner of action. I would I knew!”
She rose, and coming close to him, she stood with one hand resting upon his shoulder, her eyes smiling down upon his upturned face.
“And shall such a trifle fret you--you who professed a week ago that you would this siege might last for ever?”
“Account me not fickle, anima mia,” he answered her, and he kissed the ivory fingers that rested on his shoulder. “For that was before the world changed for me at the magic of your bidding. And so,” he repeated, “I would I knew what is toward at Babbiano!”
“But why sigh over a wish so idle?” she exclaimed. “By what means can news reach you here of the happenings of the world without?”
He pondered a moment, seeking words in which to answer her. A score of times during that week had he been on the point of disclosing himself, of telling her who and what he was. Yet ever had he hesitated, putting off that disclosure until the season should appear more fitting. This he now considered the present. She trusted him, and there was no reason to remain silent longer. Perhaps already he had delayed too long, and so he was about to speak when she started from his side, and crossed hastily to the window, alarmed by the sound of approaching steps. A second later the door opened, and Gonzaga appeared.
A moment he hesitated in the doorway, looking from one to the other, and Francesco, lazily regarding him in his turn, noted that his cheeks were pale and that his eyes glittered like those of a man with the fever. Then he stepped forward, and, leaving the door open behind him, he advanced into the room.
“Monna Valentina, I have something to communicate to you.” His voice shook slightly. “Messer--Francesco, will you give us leave?” And his feverish eyes moved to the open door with an eloquence that asked no words.
Francesco rose slowly, endeavouring to repress his surprise and glanced across at Valentina, as if awaiting her confirmation or refusal of this request that he should leave them.
“A communication for me?” she marvelled, a slight frown drawing her brows together. “Of what nature, sir?”
“Of a nature as important as it is private.”
She raised her chin, and with a patient smile she seemed to beg of Francesco that he would suffer her to humour this mood of Gonzaga's. In quick obedience Francesco inclined his head.
“I shall be in my chamber until the hour of my rounds, Madonna,” he announced, and with that took his departure.
Gonzaga attended him to the door, which he closed after him, and composing his features to an expression of sorrowing indignation, he came back and stood facing Valentina across the table.
“Madonna,” he said, “I would to Heaven this communication I have to make to you came from other lips. In the light of what has passed--here at Roccaleone--through my folly--you--you may think my mission charged with vindictiveness.”
Perplexity stared at him from her eyes.
“You fill me with alarm, my good Gonzaga,” she answered him, though smiling.
“Alas it has fallen to my unfortunate lot to do more than that. I have made the discovery of as foul a piece of treachery here in your fortress as ever traitor hatched.”
She looked at him more seriously now. The vehemence of his tone, and the suggestion of sorrow that ran through it and gave it so frank an accent, commanded her attention.
“Treachery!” she echoed, in a low voice, her eyes dilating. “And from whom?”
He hesitated a moment, then waving his hand:
“Will you not sit, Madonna?” he suggested nervously.
Mechanically she seated herself at the table, her eyes ever on his face, alarm spreading in her heart, born of suspense.
“Be seated too,” she bade him, “and tell me.”
He drew up a chair, sat down opposite to her, and taking a deep breath: “Heard you ever of the Count of Aquila?” he inquired.
“It were odd if I had not. The most valiant knight in Italy, fame dubs him.”
His eyes were intently on her face, and what he saw there satisfied him.
“You know how he stands with the people of Babbiano?”
“I know that he is beloved of them.”
“And do you know that he is a pretender to the throne of Babbiano? You will remember that he is cousin to Gian Maria?”
“His relationship to Gian Maria I know. That he pretends to the throne of Babbiano I was not aware. But whither are we straying?”
“We are not straying, Madonna,” answered Gonzaga, “we are making a straight line for the very heart and soul of this treachery I spoke of. Would you believe me if I told you that here, in Roccaleone, we have an agent of the Count of Aquila one who in the Count's interest is protracting this siege with the pretended aim of driving Gian Maria off.”
“Gonzaga----” she began, more than half guessing the drift of his explanation. But he interrupted her with unusual brusqueness.
“Wait, Madonna,” he cried, his eyes upon her face, his hand imperiously raised. “Hear me out in patience. I am not talking idly. Of what I tell you I am armed with proof and witness. Such an agent of--of the Count's interests we have among us, and his true object in protracting this siege, and encouraging and aiding you in your resistance, is to outwear the patience of the people of Babbiano with Gian Maria, and drive them in the hour of their approaching peril from Caesar Borgia's armies to bestow the throne on Aquila.”