The Fool Beloved

TELLS WHAT BEFELL AT THE BLACK HORSE TAVERN

In the dim-lit chamber of the Black Horse tavern three men sat at wine: the first a gay-seeming fellow, ornate of person, bold of gesture and fluent of speech; the second a bewhiskered ferocity, slow of tongue though quick of eye; the third a pallid youth who leaned to peer from small, open lattice out upon the darkening road.

“Night!” he exclaimed, suddenly. “Night falls apace and yet no sign o’ them! They should ha’ been here ere this! Eh, eh—how say you, Annibal?”

“Well now,” answered this first man, stretching booted legs to lounge more at ease, “as man of action, for this delay I curse, as gentleman I merely smile, but being a philosopher I say all’s well, my Florizel,—is so, I say, and so shall be for that so be it must.”

“Ay, we needs must,” repeated Florizel, turning from the window, “being by evil compelled to this black evil——”

“Evil, quotha?” growled the scowling man ferociously. “Ha, now what puling chicken-hearted clack is this——”

“Hold!” said Annibal, with commanding gesture. “Temper thy so natural ire, my Rodrigo, for this our Florizel, being young, lacketh our much experience and smarteth to the prick o’ conscience. Yet it shall blunt anon and irk him no more than doth thine or mine. He shall ripen——”

“Oh, mock,” sighed Florizel, crouching in his chair, “mock me an ye will, yet do I protest this thing we are about to do is loathed and most detestable——”

“So now,” growled Rodrigo, “he will dare miscall our trade, a notable profession dignified by ages and right gentlemanly calling——”

“Calling, ay truly!” retorted Florizel. “I’ve heard it called ‘murder’ ere now! And we presently compelled thereto by this damned Spanish lord Gonzago——”

“Peace, fool!” hissed Rodrigo, cowering. “Here is perilous name! Our lives do lie in his potent hand——”

“Verily! Oh, he hath us fast . . . for that one sin doth beget others! ‘Florizel,’ saith he, becking me aside, ‘at such a time you did thus’—naming that methought secret as the night wherein ’twas done. ‘I’ve hanged men for less!’ saith he, smiling——”

“Ay, yea,” nodded Annibal, “my lord hath very wheedling way to woo one to his purposes——”

“So thus,” groaned Florizel, “are we compelled to murder one that never did us wrong, a youth we’ve never seen, a hapless student all unsuspecting——”

“And the bee cried ‘buzz’!” growled Rodrigo.

“A mere poor student,” Florizel repeated. “I marvel so great a lord should stoop to harm such.”

“Ay, but,” said Annibal, reaching for the wine, “this same student is far more than he seems and therefore more worthy the—ha—attentions of such as we, my Florizel! He hath been oft assailed upon the road and lives yet!”

“Then,” growled Rodrigo, “there was curst bungling!”

“Nay—there was featly play o’ rapier and dagger wherefore our comrade Bandello lieth sore wounded! And dost mind that jovial toss-pot Vitry the Frenchman?”

“Certes. A merry, frolicsome fellow.”

“Well, he will frolic no more.”

“How—is he dead?”

“As mutton! And by this same well-managed steel! This student proveth notable man at arms, ha? Now I’ve heard tell our great Fortunio, this redoubtable fighter and invincible commander, hath a brother who, though a scholarly youth and lover of books, can twirl rapier featly as Fortunio’s self, having learned the gentle art of that grimly old swordsman, Jacomo, his ancient. Well, is all plain now?”

“Ay, by the fiend, plain as these my hilts! Here’s game worthy of us!”

“In verity!” nodded Annibal. “Thus, Vitry and the others failed! But we——”

“Aha—we,” chuckled Rodrigo; “thou and I do never fail. So ’tis good as done and this lordly student no better than crow’s-meat even now.”

“Is this so sure?”

“As death, my Florizel, I warrant you this stripling shall pass aloft so gently, so sweetly-swift he shall scarce know it.”

“Ay,” quoth Rodrigo, “we be marvellous expert, Annibal and I! We ha’ sped many a weary soul heavenwards!”

“And thus,” laughed Annibal, “are become benefactors o’ mankind. For as this sorry world is full of all manner of hardships, sufferings and evils——”

“As murders!” whispered Florizel.

“Yea, murders and the like grievous necessities, it then follows—how good and noble are such as we to waft a soul from these vile haunts, this very doghole of a world, to that celestial kingdom, that sinless paradise, where is no contention save the throb of harps. Thus ’tis like enough this young Count Angelo, thus throned in bliss by our efforts, shall pour benedictions upon our heads anon for very gratitude.”

“Oho!” chuckled Rodrigo. “Right excellent well said, Annibal! But since our student rideth with a friend, must we thus waft both to paradise?”

“This as may be—so long as we do angelize young Angelo! For, and mark this well, ’tis suspected he bears dispatches, a letter of the utmost import; this we must secure! And that we may certainly know him I have his exact description—hearkee!”

So saying, Annibal drew a paper from the ornate pouch at his girdle, wherefrom he now read aloud: “Neither tall nor short, and something slender. He is black-haired, dark of eye and pale complexion. Item: carrieth silver-hilted rapier whereon is ’graven the badge of his house, to wit ‘Fidena’. Item: a black cloak, scarlet-lined and edged with oak leaves in silver. Item: a wide-eaved hat with feather o’ scarlet.”

“Good!” nodded Rodrigo. “I shall know him at a glance.”

“Moreover, we are to take each some token for proof our business brought to happy finality. So, his cloak for me.”

“And I his hat. Soho Florizel, and what’s for thee, what?”

“Who knoweth? His sword belike! Now since he is brother to the great Fortunio that so lately freed our duchy from dread o’ the Turk, why requite him thus vilely, why must we do this thing?”

“For reasons o’ State, my Florizel, and for that we are so commanded——”

“Ay, by this Gonzago! And to what end?”

“The advantage of us all. We—being the very fingers of his hands, the toes of his feet whereby he climbeth to power; as he mounts so mount we. Thus shall our fortunes soar and——”

Annibal paused as to them shambled their host Tomaso, a fat man who sweated, breathed short and wheezed:

“Soldiers, my masters . . . there be soldiers . . . i’ the village hard by . . . men o’ the lord Fortunio’s guard——”

“Ha!” exclaimed Rodrigo, leaping afoot. “A thousand devils! What now, Annibal?”

“Drink!” he answered, suiting act to word.

“Malediction!” snarled Rodrigo, clapping hand on sword. “Are they for us, Tomaso? Are we betrayed——”

“No, no, messires! I do but warn ye how there must be no shooting to rouse the village and bring these soldiers down on us. I do but warn.”

“So?” nodded Annibal. “Then Tomaso, my fat one, bleat not so lamb-like. Content you, here shall be no blatant trigger-work nor hit-or-miss thunderous discharges; our steel by soundless insertion shall suffice. See therefore you keep us private here.”

“I will indeed, sir.”

“Hast set a watch upon the road to advise us of our travellers’ approach.”

“Even so. You shall be duly warned, good master Annibal.”

---

“Look up, old lad!” cried Count Angelo, clapping his silent companion on broad shoulder. “Yonder is the frontier at last, and beyond—my home country!”

“Good!” exclaimed Sir John Courtenay. “Though in England, as you’ll mind, are no frontiers, thank God, by His Grace we have the sea that is our everlasting barrier and sure defence.”

“Ah,” sighed Angelo, “would this ravaged land might have such barrier!”

“Nay, but, Angelo, this country, though fair, is not England, alas!”

“You are mighty proud of that same little island, eh, John?”

“Indeed, that am I, and with good reason. For though in this great world be many and divers countries, there is only one England! And ’tis of nature so miraculous that no matter how far an Englishman journey, even as I, or roveth hither and yon about this earth, yet is he forever at home; by cause he ever beareth England in his very heart.”

“A fair thought, John. So here you shall be twice at home. For beyond those hills, that are nigher than they seem, is Celonia and my brother’s castle of Fidena where you shall find such glad and hearty welcome that even your England and our years together at Oxenford will fade to a dream.”

“Then ’twill be dream as blessed as our last days o’ travel have been right cursed nightmare, what with bad roads, worser inns, thievish rogues and ruffians, sudden alarms, ambuscados and bloody onfalls!”

“Indeed,” said Angelo, thoughtfully, “latterly our journey hath been something eventful——”

“Eventful?” exclaimed Sir John indignantly. “Good lack and God aid us—eventful, d’ye say? Here we’ve been shot at, cut at, stabbed at, ridden at, bedogged and bedevilled, and you call it ‘eventful’! Here’s me with a bullet-hole clean through my hat, and another very perilously through my breeches and you with a rapier-thrust quite through that fine, Italianate cloak o’ yours, and you call it—ha—that cloak! This gives me cause to ponder!”

“Why so, John?”

“By cause, Angelo, this same cloak is the only foreign thing about you! In all else—speech, look, dress and gesture—you are as English as myself and thus with no curst, foreign braggadocio flourishes, no feigned ferocity of rolling eye, scowling brow, flaring nostril, snarling lip, gnashing teeth or like futile fooleries. No, thou art, to all seeming, a very Englishman and right worthy so to be!”

“ ’Slife!” laughed Angelo. “This—and from such Englishman as you, John, is tribute well nigh overwhelming!”

“Yet from my heart ’tis meant, i’ faith. But now, Angelo, consider. As we are both English, seemingly, and as all travelling Englishmen are deemed vastly rich, shall this explain these repeated murderous attacks upon us? For by the Pyx, no two lone travellers ever fought for their lives harder than we! Though by Saint George we gave better than we took, of course; being the two best swords in all the colleges, this was expected. Howbeit, the question is: were these assailments merely by cause of our English showing?”

“Mayhap, John, and the fact that hereabout has been desperate war so lately.”

“War,” repeated Sir John, “and thy noble brother Fortunio the victorious champion a right notable soldier and most excellent commander by all accounts! The which sets me awondering, Angelo, why thou, being such joyous fighter, fought not beside him ’neath his famous banner.”

“So I did, John, and repeatedly though he, as often, had me arrested and conveyed back to my then university at Padua and at last overseas to England and Oxenford. So thus, by my brother’s will and most strict command, I have lived displeasingly safe until the warring ended. So now, here am I, by his will again, homeward riding with you, old lad, that helped to make the years of my inglorious exile less irksome. Though wherefore I am summoned so urgently and at such speed, I cannot guess.”

“How long since last you saw your brother?”

“Five years.”

“Good lack, Angelo, the whole world may change in far less time!”

“Why, so it has, John.”

“Ay, faith, and these years that have so changed the world, and you from youth to man, shall have altered him far more. Today, by his mighty achievements, he has grown from man to Titan, his fame a by-word!”

“And godlike Titan, John, crowned with glory!”

“True, Angelo! Thus shall I be the more truly proud and honoured to meet him. But, and moreover, these years of such desperate effort, cares of office with hardship o’ ceaseless battle, shall have changed him bodily also and, mayhap, quite beyond thy past memory and present knowing.”

“Oh, never!” laughed Angelo, confidently.

“Nor,” persisted John, doggedly, “in your new-come manhood and English tire and bearing, shall he know you.”

“He will, John, he will,” cried Angelo, checking his horse the better to speak, “for, since our parents died so many years agone, he hath been to me a father, ay, and mother also! Thus when brothers love as we, nought in this world, or the next, may blind each to other; our very blood would cry: ‘Oh, brother, I am here!’ ”

“Hum!” exclaimed stubborn John. “Howbeit and nevertheless, Angelo, thou’rt so vastly changed, even since I knew thee, that now and after these years of change and absence I’ll wager Lord Fortunio shall scarce know one of us from other, t’other from which! I’ll set you any wager that, dight in your hat and cloak and feigning your walk, voice and gesture, I could so confound him that he should greet me for thee and John as Angelo.”

“Never in this world, John.”

“Dare you put it to proof?”

“Nay, ’twere mere foolery!”

“Why then, you are not so sure, eh, my old boy, eh?”

“John, I am sure o’ this as—the grave, but——”

“Oho—but! So verily you fear ‘brotherhood’ might be so deceived that my Lord should bestow his kiss o’ welcome on me?”

“No, I say—and no!”

“Well, then,” chuckled persistent John, pulling up in his turn, “since thou art so perfectly assured, my Angelo, take thou my hat and cloak and, to prove thy belief, give me thine.” And so, after some hesitation and great unwillingness on Angelo’s part, the exchange was made and they rode on again—to that which was to be.

Reaching the crown of a hill, Angelo halted once more to gaze across a wide vale where, throned above ever-deepening shadow, rose the embattled walls and lofty towers of Celonia, a city just now mellowed and made beautiful by the last rays of a blood-red sunset.

“Oh, Celonia!” he exclaimed. “Thou art lovelier even than I deemed! How think you, John?”

“A right fair city and mightily strong!”

“In very truth, John! Too strong for the ravening Turk, thank God! ’Twas there they besieged us, ten years agone, when all save the city and Fidena, my brother’s strong castle, had fallen. ’Twas thence Fortunio drave them at last, fighting battle after battle, out-scheming and out-fighting them until—today, yonder is she, our mother city, unconquered and immune, throned in glory——”

“And yonder is an inn!” quoth John. “Come, let’s to’t, for I’ve a noble thirst. Come, Angelo!” Thither rode they at speed and there dismounting were greeted by a fat man who smiled and bowed.

And after they had seen their horses duly tended, they followed this bowing, smiling fatness into a spacious, dim-lit chamber where three other travellers sat in murmurous converse.

“Noble messires,” smiled their host, forever bowing, “pray how may I be honoured to serve your lordships? Will ye bite, will ye sup? I can offer your nobilities a wine of Burgundy richly rare and even worthy of your excellencies—”

“Good!” nodded Sir John. “Go fetch it.”

“And speedily!” added Angelo, impatiently. “ ’Tis nigh curfew, and we would reach the city ere its gates close.”

“But, lording, they shall not close this night, for in the city is marvellous rejoicing! Yea, in all the duchy folk cry blessings on their great captain, the Lord Fortunio, for joy o’ their deliverance, their freedom won by his war-crafty valour. So tonight for this victorious peace is high revelry; folk sing and dance and ring their bells so lustily ye shall hear ’em out yonder on the road—an you go hearken hard enow——”

“This will I!” cried Angelo, starting afoot. “Go with me, John; these bells shall cry us welcome.”

“Nay, go you,” answered stubborn John. “As for me, I’ll bide here and slake my thirst. Go list to your welcome, then come you and we’ll drink health, long life and enduring glory to thy valiant brother.”

“Ay, old John lad, and heartily!” Then away strode young Angelo, spurs ajingle, and, being come out upon the road, saw how the night-shadows gloomed and the glory fading upon Celonia’s walls and towers; but to him, faint and sweet with distance, stole the glad pealing of her bells, like a dearly familiar, oft-remembered, ageless voice, calling him home. And lifting his arms thitherward with yearning gesture, he whispered in answer:

“I come! Oh, Fortunio, my brother, God keep thee till we meet. . . .”

And it was now, even as he uttered his prayer, that Annibal unsheathed dagger and drew sword, whispering:

“Here now opportunity beckons—come!”

“Then,” gasped Florizel, “I will not see it done!” and, speaking, he dashed out the light. . . .

Then to Angelo, upon the darkening road, came a wild distressful cry:

“To me! I’m beset . . . ha, for love o’ God . . . help . . . help me. . . .”

Out flickered Angelo’s rapier and he sped, guided by this cry, into this place of darkness and murder where now ensued fierce ring and clash of steel, fury of unseen movement, a bubbling groan answered by a dreadful wailing, a jingling rush of spurred feet out and away. . . .

Then was ghastly stillness, an awful silence—broken suddenly by a frantic shout:

“Lights here! Bring a light! Ah, for love o’ God—light!”

Thus presently came Tomaso, bearing in either shaking hand tapers, whose unsteady beams showed young Count Angelo backed to the wall, sword in hand, gazing down wide-eyed upon the shape asprawl at his feet, a motionless thing that stared up at him unwinking and sightless in death.

“O . . . saints and angels!” panted Tomaso. “O sweet saints . . . what to do is here!”

All unheeding and motionless stood Count Angelo, dumb with grief and horror; then, suddenly falling to a knee, he touched this pale, set face with gentle hand.

“John!” he whispered. “Oh, John, is it thus with thee? Ah, would I had not left thee! Art sped so soon, John? Nevermore to smile or laugh, thy young voice forever hushed? And all so pitiful soon! Oh, John would I’d never left thee!”

“Woe and alas now!” wailed Tomaso, peering closer. “Noble sir, what’s here?”

“Death!” muttered Angelo, stiff-lipped. “See you—here leapt the murderous steel—to the joyous young heart of him.”

“Yea, good my lord, ’tis even so! Ah, the poor young gentleman is surely dead, alas!”

“Indeed—and in the blink of an eye!” murmured Angelo speaking like one entranced. “Then how frail a thing is life—to be snatched so swift away! So easily destroyed! An inch or two of steel, a drop or so of poison—’tis gone—and this body we so cherish is no better than senseless clod, a thing to rot . . . and rot! So now this that was my so-loved friend is become a thing to shudder at—ay, but what of the glad and valiant soul of him? Is this quite gone—like flame of out-blown taper? Can it, like gross body, perish? If this be so indeed, then what bitter mockery is life——”

“Oh and alas!” wailed Tomaso, louder than before. “Ah, what cruel, bloody business! Here lieth yet another meet for burial, one Master Florizel——”

“So!” exclaimed Count Angelo, rising. “You knew him then?”

“Not so! Not I, my lord, no no! I did but hear him so named by his fellow rogues.”

“Canst tell me aught of them, their names, condition, whence they came? Speak!” And with the word, Angelo advanced his rapier-point so theateningly that Tomaso recoiled, gasping:

“No . . . no, most noble . . . gentle master, no thing know I o’ such bloody ruffians; they be to me strangers all never seen afore! I hold no traffic with such, and this I do vow and swear by all the blessed saints! So, my good lord, prithee now put up thy sword.”

“My sword!” Angelo repeated. “Now, for thy overmuch vowing and swearing I am minded to use it, point and edge, on thy fat carcass, for thy every look proclaims thee liar. These murderers were here intent on our destruction!”

“Lord, how should I be ware o’ this?”

“Rogue, how should you not? To what purpose were they lurking here—speak!”

“For rest, my lord, as I believed, for rest and refreshment—’tis so methought.”

“So is my friend dead of them and thy so false thinking to my thinking—by thy damnable connivance.”

“Not so, my lord, no—no! Here now upon my knees I do swear it by Holy Mother and all the saints of heaven! Guiltless all am I, my noble lord, guiltless and innocent as lamb!”

“So—up, wolf! Up now and summon aid to bear—this that was my friend—this that is now but sorry clay—where it shall be prepared for its last abiding place. See to it—go!”

“Yea, yea, good my lord, I will, I will!” And struggling up from his knees, Tomaso shambled away.

And now, kneeling once more beside his dead friend, Angelo made a sign of the cross above him with reverent hand; then, blinded by tears, whispered a prayer and thereafter whispered brokenly:

“Oh, John . . . John . . . here ends thy earthly journey ere it has well begun! So must earth to earth . . . but thou wert so young and sweet in life, kind Mother Earth shall cherish thee, transforming this poor clay to fragrant herb and flower. . . . But for the soul of thee . . . this I do think is even now with God in paradise . . . and yet . . . oh, John . . . I would I had not left thee!”

TELLS OF TWO THAT WAITED

The Castle of Fidena being of no great size had therefore proved easier of defence throughout the late desperate war; against its massive walls the bloody tide of invasion, beating in vain, had been checked and finally rolled back in raving red confusion.

Thus today, as evening fell, this stronghold, impregnable as the city itself, reared its battle-scarred walls, unconquered and mighty as ever, guarding the road that led by trampled vineyard, desolate village and shady woodland, to the chiefest gate of the city. But this evening the air was glad with the merry clamour of bells far and near, while in their ruined villages men, women and children danced, laughed and sang for joy that peace was come to bless them at last.

Meanwhile in spacious hall of the castle, where hung Fortunio’s tattered banner with weapons of every sort, Jacomo, his ancient or standard-bearer, a grey-haired veteran grim and battle-scarred as the mighty castle itself, sat busily furbishing his lord’s suit of armour, the various pieces of which littered the great table in gleaming disorder while all about him the riotous bells made joyous clamour; wherefore he scowled, cursed, and at last began to sing an old battle song, bellowing defiantly, and these the words:

Here a laughing voice interrupted him.

“What, my old war-dog, must you roar that old fighting ditty and now? ’Twas well enough to march and fight by in those evil times, but not on this of all nights!” So to him came Fortunio, this man of his love, limping somewhat by reason of an old wound, a man of no great stature, lean and worn by hard service, whose thinning hair shaded a scholar’s lofty brow, but whose aquiline nose, firm mouth and jut of chin proclaimed the soldier and man of action quick to see and resolute to do; just now, instead of sword, his sinewy hand grasped a thick volume shut upon a finger to mark the place. “And why,” he continued, “why in reason’s name d’you scrub and scour that harness the which it glads me to think I shall never wear again. Have done, Jacomo; cease thy scrubbing and ranting and hearken to those bells that, like voice of choiring angels, do proclaim peace on earth and good will to all men.”

“Ah, lord, but only to men of good will! And there be none o’ good will was ever born Turk; ravening wolves rather! They are a plague, a pest, the everlasting bane o’ this sorry world——”

“From the which God hath delivered us, Jacomo!”

“Ay, God heard our prayers—mayhap! Yet there needed ten years o’ bloody fighting, and—thyself to lead us, Fortunio. As for peace—’twere well enough were every Turk dead and buried.”

“Nay, live and let live, Jacomo.”

“Ay, to fight again! So ’tis I thus cherish this good armour o’ thine and shall keep it ready to thy need, the which may chance sooner than is expected.”

“This I do nowise expect! So no more! Instead I now tell thee good news of our young Angelo, since thy love for him is great, well nigh, as mine own——”

“Ay, I’ll warrant thee! What of our lad?”

“Tidings by express that he with his English friend came safe ashore and duly received the cloak from Morelli——”

“Eh, cloak, my lord?”

“As I say—and sewn within the lining of this cloak the writing you wot of, naming those traitors by whose contrive we twice came to nigh defeat——”

“Ha, by the bones! I mind well that time we with small following rode south to reconnoitre, and, thinking all clear, were cut off i’ the mountains, beset front and rear, half our company slain, yourself desperate wounded, myself hurt and saved i’ the nick o’ time by young Ippolito’s sudden charge o’ horse. This was one time; when was t’other?”

“In my tent the night before our onfall at Varenza.”

“But Varenza was the first of our victories——”

“On that night, Jacomo, a thievish cur-dog stole and ate my supper whereof he presently died the death intended for me—that in the confusion of my dying, our camp might be surprised and taken and our young war ended in defeat——”

“Mercy o’ God! I knew nought o’ this——”

“Nor did any save my squire Andrea—and the miserable dog, poor wretch.”

“But,” gasped Jacomo, “how came this vile thing so nigh thee—and in very midst o’ the camp?”

“By the hidden hand, Jacomo! By this—this persistent will to our destruction that I have sensed about me ever and anon—this stealthy, all-pervading evil and remorseless menace.”

“Ha! But, a God’s name, who and what?”

“This we shall know, I pray, when Angelo cometh.”

“The which should be now!” growled Jacomo, bending to his self-imposed task again. “He should ha’ been with us hours agone!”

“Patience, man, patience! These be unchancy times for travel. . . . Yet, though young, he hath a cool head.”

“Ay, and thereto a ready hand and supple wrist, I’ll warrant him! With dag or rapier few shall match him—the which is no wonder, for we learned him, thou and I! Howbeit, he should be here. So the question is why——”

“Nay, Jacomo, the question is—should I warn the Duchess of his return considering they are contracted and were betrothed so long since——”

“Ah—to wedlock, poor mites, and they then both i’ their cradles! And by will o’ the Duke her father and thy lordly sire that were brothers in arms. Yet today these Lords are but dry bones, God rest ’em——”

“Yet their will lives and is known to her and the Council; this betrothal holds.”

“Oh!” laughed Jacomo, shaking his grim head. “Yet will such will hold good with such wilful she that is so full o’ wilful life, high spirit and womanly whimsies, that she will but to her will, let others will how they will? Have we not known her, thou and I, as motherless babe, lovesome child, sweetly imperious maid, and today——”

“Proud and lovely woman, Jacomo, and our liege lady.”

“That I’ve dandled o’ my knees like small, dimpled Eve and never a figleaf withal! She was wildly wilful even then and would tug my hair with her little dimpled fists till my eyes watered ay, and kick me i’ the chops with her little rosy feet——”

“Keep these particularities for herself alone, Jacomo.”

“Well, so I did last time we were alone, and i’ faith she tugged my hair again till I cried her mercy, then, ’stead o’ kick, she kissed me heartily, ay, heartily! Then a perches on my knee and ‘Jacomo,’ says she, ‘those plagues that are my councillors tell me I must be wed and within one little year!’ ‘Verily,’ says I, ‘and by young Angelo according to promise!’ At this, she gives me tweak o’ the ears and ‘Nay,’ says she, ‘no law and no promise shall compel me. I’ll wed him only that I will and not for reason o’ State but love.’ ‘Good!’ says I. But then she said such thing that up rose I and shed her from my knee and with a plump. For she told me, and mark this, that our Angelo was to her abhorrent!”

“But she hath not seen him this ten years and more!”

“True—instead is this Gonzago, this lordly, smooth-spoken señor! Him she daily sees, or were blind, for he is forever to be seen, a most persistent courtier wooing her regard! And he a foreigner!”

“A grandee of Spain, Jacomo, and therefore noble gentleman.”

“Yet I like him not.”

“Nor I,” said Fortunio, thoughtfully, “yet have no just cause for such mislike . . . except it be his too-fervent show of friendship.”

“Ay, there it is! He is too intent on pleasing thee, courting thy favour and goodwill.”

“Yet is this a crime, Jacomo?”

“Lord, such fawning homage may lead thereto! Moreover, he is great these days with Sebastian that is now chief o’ the council of ten, these grave, so revered gentlemen! Well, how think you?”

“That your many and constant suspicions are a plague.”

“Why, so they are since we are at peace! For bethink you how whiles we fought our last battles these same grave councillors accused Julio Morelli of treason so gravely that in grave he’d be but that he fled.”

“Like guilty man, Jacomo!”

“Ay, or man unable to prove his innocence! And he was thy friend years agone.”

“So he seemed!” nodded Fortunio, and began to limp to and fro as he ever did when greatly troubled and perplexed. “And I’m warned he is sending me this most secret letter!”

“And,” Jacomo growled, “hid in young Angelo’s cloak!”

“Now should this prove Morelli innocent, where then lieth the guilt?”

“Why, on these same so respected councillors ten, I’ll warrant!”

“No, not all; this were beyond reason! Not all—one, mayhap, or even two——”

“Howbeit, m’lord, seize ’em all, hang ’em all, and so be done, say I!” Fortunio’s anxious, care-knit brow smoothed, his firm lips curved to ghost of a smile as he retorted:

“Why, thou bloody-minded ancient, art so mortally wholesale?”

“Ay, thus would I for thy sake, to rid thee o’ this ‘creeping menace,’ this ‘unseen hand’. For today, as thou in all the state art greatest, great is thy peril and greater my fear and care for thee. Thou art become the mark for all men’s fawning amity or secret enmity. Honest warfare has none such perils as factious peace. Peace—with a wanion, a murrain on’t, say I——”

Suddenly, high above pealing bells, rose the silvery notes of trumpets playing a long, happily familiar fanfare.

“Ha, the Duchess!” exclaimed Jacomo, rising.

“And she comes in state, mine ancient.”

Together these old friends and much-tried comrades leaned to peer down from the narrow lattice set deep in massive wall, to look where through glowing sunset rode a splendid cavalcade; plumes and pennons fluttered, broidered mantles swayed, and amid it all, throned graceful upon white horse, the young Duchess Jenevra rode, waving slim, gauntleted hand to the joyful crowds that cheered so lustily as she passed.

Thus with majestic pomp she rode into Fidena’s courtyard, there to be greeted in due state by Fortunio the victorious and Jacomo the grim. Between them she walked with gracious dignity until, being at last hidden from those many eyes, this stately Duchess became a happy, laughing girl who hugged and kissed them turn about, saying breathlessly:

“Oh, ’tis joy to see ye thus no longer armed in hateful steel! War hath made thee great, my Fortunio, so all folk honour thee—and so do I—yet most I love thee for the dear, gentle friend hast ever been since I can remember. As for thee, Jacomo, my old Jacco, hiding thy love for me in scowls and growls, stoop and let me pull thy hair for old times’ sake! Oh, I joy to have ye thus safe home again!”

So she hugged, kissed and, clasping a hand of each, brought them into the hall. Here, seated between them:

“Now,” said she, “I banish your Jenevra a while and speak as your sovereign liege lady. This night, my lord Fortunio, to honour you and the glory of your many achievements, is a banquet, a joy feast for this good ending to our long and bitter war, where ye twain are the honoured guests. And when I and all our court shall rise to pledge the future happiness and prosperity of our duchy, then, my lord, and you, Jacomo, with your hands in mine, I shall proclaim thee, Fortunio, not only Captain General but Lord Paramount of my council of ten and chiefest minister of our duchy. Also, Messire Jacomo, for your oft-proven valour, I shall name you Lord Warden of our southern——”

“How?” he exclaimed. “I?—a lord, Jenevra?”

“My lord, ’tis the Duchess speaks!”

“Why then, gracious lady, of your grace spare me this! For well you know me unfit for such pageantry and show. Mere soldier am I, but also Fortunio’s brother in arms and therewithal content.”

“And,” said the Duchess, knitting her slender brows at him, “my will is to ennoble you, Messire Jacomo.”

“But,” he retorted, shaking grim head at her, “my will is to be no other than I am!”

“Dare you so cross and deny me?” she demanded, long-lashed eyes flashing at him.

“Lady, in all timorous humility, I dare. Also, your noble banquet shall be the better without this clumsy, ungainly fellow that is myself——”

“My lord Jacomo, I command your attendance!”

“My gracious lady, accept my humble gratitude instead.”

“S-S-So!” she hissed, clenching her fists at him. “Meaning you refuse me?”

“Meaning my place is here, and especially tonight!”

“Then you defy me?”

“Though with all submission, lady.”

Her eyes flamed at him, brows contracted, fists smote at his broad chest as she panted:

“Ah, thou . . . thou graceless wretch . . . thou detestable runnion . . . thou ill-conditioned, snarling, rebellious . . . oh——”

“Ay,” he nodded, seizing her nearest fist in iron-like grip and kissing it very tenderly, “fetch thy breath, sweeting, then to’t again! This minds me how as furious babe thou wouldst kick me i’ the chops and screech! Oho, happy days! So an wilt kick me now, let me off with thy shoes, prithee.” The young Duchess, struggling vainly, gnashed her teeth at him—but even then, seeing his adoring look, the whimsical smile that so gentled his harsh, scarred face, she became Jenevra, who, with sound between laugh and sob, clasped and kissed him, saying:

“Ah, Jacco, Jacco, I should have known thy doggish stubbornness! Yet will I honour thee despite thy surly, disobedient, long-loved self. Here, then,” said she, turning to Fortunio, “he shall bide with his self-sufficing self while tonight before all our nobility, with thy hand in mine, I shall proclaim him Lord Warden of—how, do you shake your head at me now, Fortunio?”

“Jenevra, dear lady,” he answered, gently, “I needs must crave your indulgence that I cannot be your guest tonight.”

“Cannot, my lord, or will not?”

“Madame, I am expecting a dispatch of the very greatest import——”

“It shall be brought to you.”

Again Fortunio shook his head, and once again she raged, though now more bitterly than ever.

“You, too!” she cried, leaping afoot. “You also will defy me?”

“Dear child, here is no defiance——”

“Enough . . . oh . . . enough!” she panted. And now, being thus wildly furious, she said that which, womanlike, she knew would hurt him most:

“My lord, I have now to declare the marriage proposed so long ago betwixt myself and your brother Count Angelo shall never be . . . ah . . . never! I would rather die than wed such craven as he that to avoid peril of battle fled safe to England, there to read books instead of fight! So—he shall never wed me, say or do what you will.”

Fortunio merely looked at her and was silent; not so Jacomo, for:

“Now . . . ha . . . now,” he spluttered. “S’blood, here’s lie foul as the vilest deeps of hell! Shouldst be whipped, Jenevra, smacked and slapped resoundingly for voicing such falsity——” Speaking, he rose and so threatening of aspect that, remembering certain undignified incidents of her not-far-distant childhood, Jenevra had turned to flee when came a loud, imperious knocking upon the door, which, at her command, swung wide to admit a tall, handsome man in prime of life whose rich attire served to offset his lithe shapeliness, a man this of such dominating personality that the grim old hall seemed dingier by contrast with his splendidly vital presence.

“Ah, Gonzago!” said the Duchess, reaching out her imperious hand. “My lord, you come as usual to my need.” He advanced gracefully to clasp and kiss this welcoming hand, he bowed deeply to Fortunio, smiled merrily at Jacomo’s scowling visage and said in clear, strangely pleasing voice:

“Dearest Madame, and you my right good lord, I venture this intrusion to inform your grace and you noble Fortunio that the traitor Julio Morelli will trouble you no more——”

“What—is he dead?” Jacomo demanded.

“Perfectly, sir! The which, I dare to think, you must agree is very excellent well, for as I——”

“No!” exclaimed Fortunio. “I denounce this as very ill!”

“But, most dear lord, the man was a traitor and——”

“Gonzago, this gentleman was never proved so!”

“And therefore,” added Jacomo fiercely, “he was murdered! So I ask why and—who?”

“So you may, sir, but also to none effect, for I cannot answer.”

“However,” said Fortunio, beginning to limp to and fro, “this must and shall be answered tomorrow. Whence had you this news, sir?”

“From that most worthy gentleman Sebastian, lord of the council, and he, as I guess, by special courier from the south.”

“The south!” repeated Fortunio. “And lately?”

“As I believe, my lord. Doth this happening so trouble and grieve you?”

“Murder is ever grievous, sir, and this especially.”

“Indeed, Fortunio, I have heard vague rumour how this Messire Julio Morelli was friend of yours, the which I as your very true, most loving and faithful friend, instantly contradicted.”

“Yet my friend he was, sir, and, as I believe, falsely accused. So tomorrow I will convene the council and all concerned, and into this make close and strict enquiry.”

“Very proper, my lord, very right and truly just—as is to be expected of our noble Fortunio. Shall I inform our good Sebastian?”

“Pray do. Bid him see all are present, also the courier who brought these ill tidings.”

“My lord, I will. Indeed, Fortunio, I, as one who estimates your friendship at its true worth, pray you will believe me ever at your command to serve you how you will and as best I may.”

“I thank you, sir.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Duchess, fretfully. “Have done! For I weary and am sad, Gonzago; these my dear and life-long friends will not with us to our banquet. Thus, they grieve me—and this bare old hall is place of gloom, for groans and sighs ’stead of joy and laughter! Let us begone! Pray attend me to my horse. And so, my lord Fortunio, since you will thus flout my will and refuse my kindness—here shall you bide nor show yourself at court until I so command! Now, Gonzago, let us hence.”

DESCRIBES A NIGHT OF DESTINY

“Aha!” exclaimed Jacomo as soon as they were alone. “So much for our royal spitfire and right shrewish hell-cat! And ‘Gonzago’, quo’ she, and gives him her hand most loving. Gonzago—pah!”

“Yet,” said Fortunio, thoughtfully, “he is in every sense a man.”

“That I now like less than afore.”

“And night,” sighed Fortunio, “falls apace!”

“Ay! And where is our Angelo?”

“God save him wheresoever he be!”

“Amen! And it seems God shall save him from wedding our shrewish claw-cat also, the which is excellent well. For as she is proudly arrogant as her sire, Angelo is stubborn as thyself——”

“Am I stubborn, Jacomo?”

“As a mule, as a rock, ay, as this stout burgonet o’ thine that would yield nowise to heartiest buffets! Thus, as I’m saying, this marriage would be mere scratch and bite cat and doggery!” Here ensued a silence except for Jacomo’s polishing and Fortunio’s limping step while the shadows slowly deepened upon them.

“Old Friend,” sighed Fortunio at last, halting in his restless walk, “he should have been with us long and long ere this.”

“Lord,” answered Jacomo, bending to his labour, “we hoped for and expected him at noon.”

“Jacomo, what shall have stayed him, think you?”

“Lord,” answered Jacomo, stooping lower, “the roads be . . . somewhat . . . perilous.”

“Yet he rides not alone. . . . Ah, would to heaven I had sent an escort!”

“Ay, would you had!”

“Yet he is not alone . . . and hath a cool head!”

“Cool as thine own, Fortunio! Also with petronel and rapier few can match him—the which is no wonder, for we learned him, thou and I!”

“And yet . . . ha, Jacomo, my mind misgives me! I . . . feel a great despondency! There’s evil abroad, Jacomo; I sense it i’ the very air . . . this lurking menace that creepeth unseen . . . and ever nearer. . . .”

“Yet this is peace,” growled Jacomo; “hark to those foolish bells! And the city full o’ revelling fools and all unguarded, like this thy castle, though our gates be shut, I’ve seen to that! But in these walls we are alone save for old Bartoldi and a few other aged folk!”

“Well, what then, thou dismal, hangdog, growling misery? This is a night for rejoicing.”

“True, my lord, and thus—whatsoever this night may bring, this is our comfort—we can die only once.”

“Now out upon thee, Jacomo; what talk is this of death? Instead, go call for lights that I may read—old Plato here shall be far better company. ‘Let there be light!’ ” Thus presently came old Bartoldi bearing tall candles in many-branched silver sconces; but even as he set them down, a horn brayed at the outer gate, whereat down went Fortunio’s book again and he limped to the narrow lattice, eagerly expectant.

“Can this be Angelo—at last?” he questioned, in shaken voice; and in strangely gentle tone Jacomo answered:

“Dear my lord, I fear not. He would never summon us so, but come by the postern and secret stair i’ the wall yonder.”

“Ah, true, old friend,” sighed Fortunio, bowing his head distressfully, nor did he look up when came Bartoldi, saying:

“My lord, a gentleman o’ the court, one Messire Astorgio with message from her grace.”

“The name is strange to me. Know you this gentleman, Jacomo?”

“Ay, for bedizened bladder o’ lard that clacketh like a mill and to less account.”

“And from the Duchess! I must see him. Go, bid him to me.” So came this gentleman with small, very youthful page attendant. A very precious and extremely modish gentleman page attendant. A very precious and extremely modish gentleman was Messire Astorgio, curled, perfumed and belaced, a creature of art from delicate shoe to stupendous ruff. He smiled, performed a complicated bow, struck an attitude and spoke:

“Right noble and most potent gracious lord, I greet you humbly yet passing well—my lord God keep you!”

“And you, sir.”

“Noble and most excellent Fortunio, to thee I, as ambassador and envoy extraordinary, come from our gracious lady Duchess, this peerless paragon of all beauteous perfection, bearing unto thee for thy gracious acceptance this most precious thing yet more precious made by the lovely giver, to wit—our Duchess, no less! O page, present!”

The boy instantly kneeling, proffered his master a velvet cushion whereon reposed this gift of the Duchess, a silver goblet and a flask of wine. With beringed fingers, delicately spread, Astorgio lifted these tenderly, saying as he did so:

“Valiant Fortunio, glory-crowned victor and hero of our deliverance, lo—here within this crystal pent is wine of most ripe, most rare and notable vintage! This our gracious lady sendeth thee, in token of her love and to thy later engorgement, her loving command thus: that when creeping hand of clock shall point the hour of ten of this most happy and felicitous night of nights—to be forever remembered to thy undying glory—that when at this same said hour, she herself and all her court do rise to pledge unanimous our new-won freedom—won by thy so valiant, potent, all conquering hand—then, yea even then, thyself, here at thy cloistered ease, shall also rise and thereupon drink, honouring this toast that doth but honour thee. My lord, behold now my embassage accompt!”

“My thanks, sir,” said Fortunio, taking the flask and setting it by. “To the Duchess my love and service. Tell her that upon stroke of ten I will drink this pledge.” Then Fortunio saluted and limped away, leaving Messire Astorgio gazing after him like one astonished.

“Now, by my beard,” he exclaimed, caressing that silky adornment with jewelled hand, “I do protest myself quite—quite astonished and amazed!”

“Ah,” growled Jacomo, “so am I! Sir, you have wonderous gift o’ words!”

“In faith, sir, I am something reputed therefore.”

“And, sir, being such wonder ’tis no wonder. But, sir, wherefore doth your beard so amaze you?”

“Nay, nay, sir! ’Tis not my beard, this is a familiarity. My amazement is that yon gentleman can be the great lord Fortunio.”

“Sir, it can and is! Wherefore did he thus astonish you?”

“For that he is so other than I, by report, expected.”