A moment he paused, considering. Then he perceived that, having come so far, he must go on. To retreat and reopen the door would be fraught with the greater risk, whilst to linger in the passage would be but to increase the already imminent danger of discovery. His only chance of winning through lay in going forward at once, taking care to make no sound that should reach those within. Thus, no doubt, all would be well. With extremest caution, then, he stepped forward on tip-toe, his hands upon the wall on the chapel side to guide and steady him.
Not more than three of four steps had he taken when, quite suddenly, an oath rang out in a deep male voice, followed by the laughter of several men. With that there was a scraping of chairs, and heavy steps came tramping towards the door.
With this door Messer Lorenzo was now level, and, being startled, he made his one mistake. Had he taken the risk of speeding forward swiftly, he might even now have won safely the outer bailie. But he hung there hesitating, again considering retreat even, his every sinew taut. And that pause was his ruin. In a moment he realized it, saw that he was trapped, that retreat was now utterly hopeless, and that to go forward was no better. Therefore with set teeth, and angry misery in his soul to reflect that he had won so far and at such peril only to fail upon the very threshold of success, he stood at bay, to meet what he no longer could avoid.
The door was pulled open from within, and a flood of light poured out into that black place, revealing Messer Lorenzo, white of face, with staring eyes, one hand instinctively upon his poniard-hilt, poised there as if for a spring.
Thus did the foremost of the five men who issued behold him, and at sight of him all checked abruptly, staring. This foremost one, a big, heavily-built fellow all clad in leather, black-browed and bearded, seemed in some slight measure the superior of those other four. All five were very obviously soldiers.
He fell back a step in sheer amazement, startled even by the sight of Messer Lorenzo. Then, recovering, he set his arms akimbo, planted wide his feet, and looked our gentleman over with an eye of deepest interest. ‘Now who the devil may you be?’ he demanded.
Messer Lorenzo’s wits were ever very ready, and in that moment he had a flash of inspiration. He stepped forward easily in answer to that challenge, and so came more fully into the light.
‘I am glad to see there is someone alive and awake in San Leo,’ he said; and he seemed to sneer, as one who had the right to utter a reproof.
On the faces of those five men amazement grew and spread. Looking beyond them into the room, which was lighted by torches set in iron sconces in the walls, Messer Lorenzo beheld the explanation of the silence they had kept. There was a table on which remained spread a pack of greasy cards. They had been at play.
‘Body of God,’ he went on, ‘you keep a fine watch here! The Borgia soldiery may be at your very gates. I myself can effect an entrance, and no man to hinder or challenge me, or so much as give the alarm! By the Host! were you men of mine, I should find work for you in the kitchen, and hope that you’d give a better account of yourselves as scullions than you do as soldiers.’
‘Now, who the devil may you be, I say?’ again demanded the black-browed warrior, scowling more truculently than before.
‘And how the devil come you here?’ cried another, a slender, loose-lipped fellow, with a wart on his nose, who pushed forward to survey the intruder at closer quarters.
Castrocaro on the instant became very haughty
‘Take me to your captain — to Messer Tolentino,’ he demanded. ‘He shall learn what manner of watch you keep. You dogs, the place might be burnt about your ears while you sit there cheating one another at cards, and set a fellow who appears to be both deaf and blind to pace your walls.’
The note of cool authority in his voice produced its effect. They were entirely duped by it. That a man should so address them whose right to do so was not entirely beyond question seemed to them — as it might indeed to any — altogether incredible.
‘Messer Tolentino is abed,’ said the big fellow in a surly voice.
They did not like the laugh with which Messer Castrocaro received that information. It had an unpleasant ring.
‘I nothing doubt it from the manner of your watch,’ he sneered. ‘Well, then, up and rouse him for me!’
‘But who is he, after all, Bernardo?’ insisted the loose-lipped stripling of their leader; and the others grunted their approval of a question that at least possessed the virtue of being timely.
‘Aye,’ quoth black-browed Bernardo. ‘You have not told us who you are?’ His tone lay between truculence and sulky deference.
‘I am an envoy from the Lord Guidobaldo, your duke,’ was the ready and unfaltering answer; and the young condottiero wondered in his heart whither all this would lead him, and what chance of saving himself might offer yet.
Their deference was obviously increased, as was their interest in him.
‘But how came you in?’ insisted the one who already had posed that question.
Messer Lorenzo waved the question and questioner impatiently aside.
‘What matters that?’ quoth he. ‘Enough that I am here. Are we to trifle away the night in silly questions? Have I not told you that the Borgia troops may at this moment be at your very gates?’
‘By Bacchus, they may stay there,’ laughed another. The gates of San Leo are strong enough, my master; and should the Borgia rabble venture to knock, we shall know how to answer them.’
But even as the fellow was speaking, Bernardo fetched a lanthorn from the room, and shouted to them to follow him. They went down the passage towards the door leading to the outer bailie. They crossed the courtyard together, pestering the supposed envoy with questions, which he answered curtly and ungraciously, showing them by his every word and gesture that it was not his habit to herd with such as they.
Thus they came to the door of the maschio tower, where Messer Tolentino had his dwelling; and, what time they paused there, Castrocaro sent a fond glance in the direction of the great gates, beyond which Della Volpe and his men were waiting. He was so near them that to reach and unbar those gates would be an instant’s work; but the way to rid himself of those five dogs of war was altogether beyond his devising. And now the sentry on the walls above peered down and hailed them to know whom they had with them, and the young condottiero prayed that thus Della Volpe, who must be intently on the watch without, might have warning that he was taken. Yet at the same time he knew full well that, even so, Della Volpe would be powerless to assist him. He had but his own wits upon which he could depend and he realized how desperate was his situation.
Up a winding staircase, the walls and ceilings very rudely frescoed, they led Messer Lorenzo to the apartments of Tolentino, the castellan who had been ruler of San Leo since the death, ten days ago, of the Lord Fioravanti.
As he went the young condottiero took heart once more. So far all had gone well. He had played his part shrewdly, and his demeanour had so successfully imposed upon the men that no shadow of suspicion did they entertain. Could he but succeed in similarly befooling their captain, it might well be that he should be assigned some chamber from which he anon might slip forth still to do the thing he was come to do.
As he went he prepared the tale he was to tell, and he based it upon his knowledge that Fioravanti’s resistance of Cesare Borgia had been almost in opposition to the wishes of Duke Guidobaldo — that mild and gentle scholar who had desired all fortresses to make surrender, since no ultimate gain could lie in resistance and naught ensue but a useless sacrifice of life.
The difficulty for Messer Lorenzo lay in the fact that Tolentino would desire to see credentials; and he had none to offer.
He was kept waiting in an ante-chamber what time the big Bernardo went to rouse the castellan and to inform that grumbling captain that an envoy from Duke Guidobaldo had stolen into the castle and was seeking him. No more than just that did Bernardo tell Tolentino. But it was enough.
The castellan roused himself at o
nce, with a wealth of oaths, first incoherent, then horribly coherent; he shook his great night-capped head, thrust out a pair of long hairy legs from the coverlet, and sat up on the bed’s edge to receive this envoy, whom he made Bernardo to admit.
Messer Lorenzo, very uneasy in his heart, but very haughty and confident in his bearing, entered and gave the captain a lofty salutation.
‘You are from Duke Guidobaldo?’ growled Messer Tolentino.
‘I am,’ said Castrocaro. ‘And had I been from Cesare Borgia, with a score of men at my heels, I could by now have been master of San Leo, so zealous are your watchers.’
It was shrewdly conceived, because it seemed to state an obvious truth that was well calculated to disarm suspicion. But the tone he took though well enough with men-at-arms, was a mighty dangerous one to take with a castellan of such importance and such a fierce, ungovernable temper as was notoriously Messer Tolentino’s. It flung that gentleman very naturally into a rage, and might well have earned the speaker a broken head upon the instant. This Messer Lorenzo knew and risked; for he also knew that it must earn him confidence, both for the reason already given and also because it must be inferred that only a person very sure of himself would dare to voice such a reproof.
Tolentino stared at him out of fierce, blood-injected eyes, too much taken aback to find an answer for a moment. He was a tall, handsome, big-nosed man, with black hair, an olive, shaven face, and a long, square chin. He stared on awhile, and then exploded.
‘Blood of God!’ he roared. ‘Here is a cockerel with a very noisy cackle! We’ll mend that for you ere you leave us,’ he promised viciously. ‘Who are you?’
‘An envoy from Duke Guidobaldo, as you have been informed. As for the rest — the cockerel and the cackle — we will discuss it at some other time.’
The castellan heaved himself up and sought to strike a pose of dignity, no easy matter for a man in his shirt and crowned by a nightcap.
‘You pert lap-dog!’ said he, between anger and amazement. He breathed gustily, words failing him, and then grew calmer. ‘What is your name?’
‘Lorenzo Snello,’ answered Castrocaro, who had been prepared for the question, and he added sternly: ‘I like it better than the one you have just bestowed upon me.’
‘Are you come hither to tell me what you like?’ bellowed the castellan. ‘Look you, young sir, I am the master here, and here my will is law. I can flog you, flay you, or hang you, and give account of it to none. Bear you that in mind, and—’
‘Oh, peace!’ cried Messer Lorenzo, in his turn, waving a contemptuous hand, and dominating the other by his very tone and manner. ‘Whatever I may have come for, I have not come to listen to your vapourings. Have I climbed from the plain, risked my life to get through the Borgia lines, and my neck a score of times in the ascent, to stand here and have you bellow at me of what you imagine you can do? What you cannot do, I have seen for myself.’
‘And what may that be?’ quoth Tolentino, now wickedly gentle.
‘You cannot guard a castle, and you cannot discriminate between a lackey and one who is your peer and perhaps something more.’
The castellan sat down again and rubbed his chin. Here was a very hot fellow, and, like all bullies, Messer Tolentino found that hot fellows put him out of countenance.
In the background, behind Messer Lorenzo, stood Tolentino’s men in line, silent but avid witnesses of his discomfiture. The castellan perceived that at all costs he must save his face.
‘You’ll need a weighty message to justify this insolence and to save you from a whipping,’ said he gravely.
‘I’ll need no weightier a message than the one I bear,’ was the sharp answer. ‘The duke shall hear of these indignities to which you are subjecting one he loves, and who has run great peril in his service.’
His dignity, his air of injury was now overwhelming. ‘And mark you, sir, it is not the way to treat an envoy, this. Were my duty to the duke less than it is, or my message of less moment, I should depart as I have come. But he shall hear of the reception I have had, rest assured of that.’
Tolentino shuffled, ill at ease now.
‘Sir,’ he cried, protesting, ‘I swear the fault is yours. Who pray are you, to visit me with your reproofs? If I have failed in courtesy it was you provoked me. Am I to bear the gibes of every popinjay who thinks he can discharge my duties better than can I? Enough, sir!’ He waved a great hand, growing dignified in his turn. ‘Deliver the message that you bear.’ And he held out that massive hand of his in expectation of a letter.
But Messer Lorenzo’s pretence was, of necessity, that he bore his message by word of mouth.
‘I am bidden by my lord to enjoin you to make surrender with the honours of war, which shall be conceded you by the Duke of Valentinois,’ said he; and seeing the surprise, doubt, and suspicion that instantly began to spread upon Tolentino’s face for all to read, he launched himself into explanations. ‘Cesare Borgia has made terms with Duke Guidobaldo, and has promised him certain compensations if all the fortresses of his dominions make surrender without more ado. These terms my lord has been advised to accept, since by refusing them nothing can he hope to gain, whilst he may lose all. Perceiving this, and satisfied that by prolonging its resistance San Leo can only be postponing its ultimately inevitable surrender and entailing by that postponement the loss of much valuable life, Duke Guidobaldo has sent me to bid you in his name capitulate forthwith.’
It had a specious ring. It was precisely such a message as the humanitarian duke might well have sent, and the profit to accrue to himself from the surrender he enjoined seemed also a likely enough contingency. Yet the shrewd Tolentino had his doubts, doubts which might never have assailed another.
Wrinkles increased about his fierce black eyes as he bent them now upon the messenger.
‘You will have letters of this tenour from my lord?’ he said.
‘I have none,’ replied Messer Lorenzo, dissembling his uneasiness.
‘Now, by Bacchus, that is odd!’
‘Nay, sir, consider,’ said the young man too hastily, ‘the danger of my carrying such letters. Should they be found upon me by the Borgia troops, I—’
He checked, somewhat awkwardly, perceiving his mistake. Tolentino smacked his thigh with his open palm, and the room rang with the sound of it. His face grew red. He sprang up.
‘Sir, sir,’ said he, with a certain grimness, ‘we must understand each other better. You say that you bring me certain orders to act upon a certain matter that has been concerted between Valentinois and my lord, and you talk of danger to yourself in bearing such orders in a letter. Be patient with me if I do not understand.’ Tolentino’s accents were unmistakably sardonic. ‘So desirable is it from the point of view of Valentinois that such commands should reach me, that he could not have failed to pass you unmolested through his troops. Can you explain where I am wrong in these conclusions?’
There but remained for Messer Lorenzo to put upon the matter the best face possible. A gap was yawning at his feet. He saw it all too plainly. He was lost, it seemed.
‘That explanation, my lord, no doubt, will furnish you, should you seek it from him. I hold it not. It was not given me, nor had I the presumption to request it.’ He spoke calmly and proudly, for all that his heart-beats had quickened, and in his last words there was a certain veiled reproof of the other’s attitude. ‘When,’ he continued, ‘I said that it would have been dangerous to have given me letters, I but put forward, to answer you, the explanation which occurred to me at the moment. I had not earlier considered the matter. I now see that I was wrong in my assumption.’
Messer Tolentino considered him very searchingly. Throughout his speech, indeed, the castellan’s eyes had never left his face. Messer Lorenzo’s words all but convinced Tolentino that the man was lying. Yet his calm and easy assurance, his proud demeanour, left the captain still a lingering doubt.
‘At least you’ll bear some sign by which I am to know that you are ind
eed my lord’s envoy?’ said he.
‘I bear none. I was dispatched in haste. The duke, it seems, did not reckon upon such a message as this being doubted.’
‘Did he not?’ quoth Tolentino, and his note was sardonic. Suddenly he asked another question. ‘How came you to enter the fortress?’
‘I climbed up from the plain on the southern side, where the rock is accounted inaccessible.’ And, seeing the look of surprise that overspread the captain’s face, ‘I am of these parts: he explained. ‘In boyhood I have frequently essayed the climb. It was for this reason that Duke Guidobaldo chose me.’
‘And when you had gained the wall, did you bid the sentry lower you a rope?’
‘I did not. I had a rope of my own, and grappling hooks.’
‘Why this, when you are a messenger from Guidobaldo?’ The castellan turned sharply to his men. ‘Where did you find him?’ he inquired.
It was Bernardo who made haste to answer that they had found him lurking in the passage outside the guard-room as they were coming out.
Tolentino laughed with fierce relish, and swore copiously and humorously.
‘So-ho!’ he crowed. ‘You had passed the sentry unperceived, and you were well within the fortress ere suddenly you were discovered, when, behold! you become a messenger of Guidobaldo’s bearing orders to me to surrender the fortress, and you take this high tone about our indifferent watch to cover the sly manner of your entrance. Oh-o! ’Twas shrewdly thought of, but it shall not avail you — though it be a pity to wring the neck of so spirited a cockerel.’ And he laughed again.
‘You are a fool,’ said Castrocaro with finality, ‘and you reason like a fool.’
‘Do I so? Now, mark me. You said that it was because you knew a secret way into this castle that Guidobaldo chose you for his messenger. Consider now the folly of that statement. You might yourself have construed that Guidobaldo’s wish was that you should come hither secretly, though yourself you have admitted the obvious error of such an assumption. But to tell me that an envoy from the duke bidding us surrender to Cesare Borgia, and so do the will of the latter, should need come here by secret ways at the risk of his neck—’ Tolentino shrugged and laughed in the white face of Messer Lorenzo.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 438