Delphi Collected Works of Max Brand US

by Max Brand

  “Why not here in the open, where it’s cool?” demanded Tomaso.

  “Because the night air might steal you, my lad,” said the baron. And he led Tomaso from the court and through the narrow black mouth of a postern door. Tizzo listened until the footfalls and the muffled chiming of steel had ceased.

  But in his heart he had companionship enough. He had memories of this day which seemed to outweigh all the rest of his life. Two things stood out above the rest — the sword of the Englishman arrested in midthrust at his throat and that instant of incredible delight when the plumes had floated away from the crest of Marozzo and the steel helmet had rung with the stroke.

  It must have been close to midnight when, as he turned the corner of the wall of the keep, he saw a slender shadow that trailed like a snake from an upper casement. He looked again, startled, and made sure that it was a rope of some sort which had just been lowered from the room of Tomaso!

  CHAPTER 6

  HE FOUND WHAT the rope was by a touch — blankets cut into strips and twisted. And this fragile, uneven rope-end began to twitch and jerk suddenly. When he looked up, he saw a form sliding down the rope from the casement above.

  Tizzo pulled the dagger from his belt and waited. He had that insane desire to laugh but he repressed it by grinding his teeth. Overhead, he heard a voice call out, dimly: “Tomaso! Hello — Tomaso!”

  That call would not be answered, he knew, for poor Tomaso was sliding, as he thought, toward a new chance for liberty. There was courage, after all, in the pale, brown-eyed boy. There was an unexpected force in the creature in spite of the undue softness of voice, whether in speaking or singing.

  He kept his teeth gripped and grasped the dagger a little more firmly, also. He would not use the point; a tap on the head with the hilt of the dagger would be enough to settle this case.

  Above him, the calling became that not of Enrico but of the baron himself, who shouted: “Tomaso! Where are you?”

  Then Baron Melrose was bawling out the window above: “Hai! He is there! He is almost to the ground. Enrico, waken every one! Down to the court or the prize will be gone. Run! Run! Our bird is on the wing!”

  The descending form, casting itself loose from the rope as it heard this cry, dropped the short distance to the ground that remained — and the arm of Tizzo was instantly pinioning the figure.

  Tomaso, with the silence of despair, writhed fiercely and vainly; the head went back and the wild eyes stared up into the face of Tizzo.

  And suddenly Tizzo breathed out: “Lord!” and recoiled a step as though he had been stabbed. Tomaso for an instant leaned a hand against the wall — the other was pressed to his breast. That hand against the wall carried a glimmer of light in the form of a little needle-pointed poniard.

  “Listen, Tizzo!” stammered the voice of Tomaso. “You’re only with them by chance. You’re not one of them. Save me — and my people will make you rich! Rich!”

  “Damn the wealth!” groaned Tizzo. “Madam — how could I keep from guessing what you are? — madam, I am your servant — trust me — and run in the name of God!”

  Overhead, there were rapid feet rushing on the stairs; and “Tomaso” ran like a deer beside Tizzo around the corner of the keep and toward the horses, which had been left in a corner of the yard to graze on the long grass which grew through the interstices of the pavement. Some of them were lying down, others still tore at the grass.

  “Can you ride — without a saddle?” gasped Tizzo.

  “Yes — yes!” cried the girl.

  He was hardly before her at the horses. Two bridles he found, tossed one to her, and jerked the other over the head of the best of the animals, a good gray horse which the baron himself had ridden that day. When that was on, with the throatlatch unsecured, he saw the girl struggling to get the bit of the second bridle through the teeth of another horse. He took that work from her hands, finished it with a gesture, and then helped that lithe body to leap onto the back of the gray.

  * * * * *

  Voices had burst out into the court, that of Enrico first of all. And he saw the forms running, shadowy in the starlight.

  “Ride!” he called to the girl. “Ride! Ride!”

  And as the gray horse began to gallop, Tizzo was on the back of the second bridled charger. The moment his knees pressed the rounded sides, he recognized one of the wheelhorses, the slowest of them all; and he groaned.

  “What’s there?” big Enrico was calling. “Who’s there?”

  “I!” he cried in answer. “Tizzo — and fighting for the lady.”

  It was too late for him to drive the horse through the gateway of the ruined courtyard; they were already on him, Enrico running first.

  “The redheaded brat — cut him to pieces!” yelled Enrico. “The horses — get to horse and after her!”

  And he aimed a long stroke at Tizzo, who caught it on his naked blade and returned a thrust that ran through the shoulder of the man. Enrico fell back, with a yell and a curse. Two more were coming; but in spite of its clumsy feet and bulky size, Tizzo had his horse in motion, now. He could hear the loud voice of the baron shouting orders as the heavy brute cantered through the gateway and then slithered and slid down the steep way outside, theatening to fall with a crash at every instant.

  The girl was there — she was waiting just beyond the threshold of the first danger, crying out: “Are you hurt, Tizzo?”

  She had heard the clashing of the swords, no doubt.

  “Not touched!” he answered.

  And they swept down the dangerous, bending way together. The huddled ruins of the town poured past them, like crouching figures ready to spring. They issued into the open country; and already the roar of pursuing hoofs sounded through the street of the village behind them.

  Tizzo began to laugh. He sheathed his sword and waved his arm above his head. “We have won!” he shouted.

  It seemed to him in the wildness of his happiness that he could pluck the brightness of the stars from the sky. But under him he felt the gallop of the carriage-horse already growing heavy. It would not endure. The poor brute was as sluggish as though running in mud fetlock-deep.

  The girl had to rein in her light-footed gray to keep level with Tizzo.

  “Go on!” he called to her. “This brute is as slow as an ox and they’ll overtake it. But you’re free. You’ve won. Ride for safety — go on!”

  “If they find you, they’ll kill you,” cried the girl. “I won’t leave you. If they catch you, Tizzo, I’ll let them catch me, also!”

  “They’d never spare me for your sake!” he shouted in answer. “Ride on!”

  “I shall not!” came that clear voice in reply.

  He drew the blundering horse closer to hers and leaned above her.

  “I have started the work. Let me hope that it will be finished!” he exclaimed. “For God’s sake and for mine, save yourself!”

  As though to reinforce his words, the uproar of hoofs left the dull, echoing street of the village and poured more loudly across the open country.

  “If they find you—” she protested.

  But he laughed in that wild and happy voice. “They’ll never find me. I have a lucky star — do you see there? — the golden one — it is favoring me now. Farewell! Tell me where to find you — and ride on!”

  “Perugia!” she cried in answer. “You shall find me in Perugia. My name is—”

  But here their horses thundered over the hollow of a bridge and the name was quite lost to him.

  As they reached the roadway beyond, with loosed rein she was already flying before him, farther and farther in the lead; every stride that the fine gray gave carried her distinctly away from him. At the next bend of the road she was gone; and the flying hoofs from the village poured closer and closer behind Tizzo.

  There was no use continuing on the back of that sluggard. He drew rein enough to make it safe to leap to the ground and then let the heavy blunderer canter on, diminishing speed at every jump, wh
ile the liquid jounced and squeaked audibly in its belly. Tizzo jumped behind a broken stone wall and lay still.

  When the flight had passed him, he ran up to the top of the nearest hill, but the light was too dim for him to see anything. Only the noise of the galloping poured up to him from the darkness of the hollow, rang more loudly off the face of the opposite hill, and then dipped away and disappeared beyond.

  Tizzo folded his arms and shook his head.

  Ah, what a fool he had been not to see the truth before! Of course all of the others had known what she was. That was why their eyes had dwelt upon her in a certain way, following her hungrily. But he, Tizzo, had not known. And yet no matter what a fool he had been there remained in him an abiding resentment against the baron.

  Neither was it all resentment, either. The heart of Tizzo poured out in admiration of that rash and valiant man who had set his single hand against such powers as those of the house of Marozzo. For with the name of Marozzo went that of Baglioni; the whole of Perugia was dominated by that noble family.

  From Falcone, from Melrose, he had cut himself off. And if he went to Perugia — well, was it not likely that he would encounter the eyes of any one of the dozen men who had seen him with unvisored face in the battle of that day?

  That did not matter. He knew that it was folly, but he also knew that nothing under a thunderstroke could keep him possibly from the town of Perugia.

  She had made a handsome boy; she would be a gloriously beautiful woman. It seemed to Tizzo that there was nothing in the world he wanted so much as to hear, once more, her singing of that song which he had heard in the evening.

  He walked down the hill, took the first road, and stepped along it at a brave pace toward distant Perugia.

  CHAPTER 7

  IT WAS A day of heat and of showers; and the old beggar at last drew in under a projecting cornice which kept him dry. His withered face was full of both malice and patience, and his throat was sore from the whining pitch at which he had been singing out his appeals for mercy since that morning. He had in his purse enough to buy him a good cloak, and wine and meat and bread for half a month, but he was disappointed because he had not picked up enough for an entire month. Old Ugo, secure under the cornice, leaning on his staff, was about to step out into the street again in spite of a slight continuing of the rain, but here a sprightly young man with a sword at his side and his hat cocked jauntily at an angle paused suddenly beside him and said: “Father, have you lived a long time in Perugia?”

  “I have existed here for a little course of years, some fifty or sixty,” said Ugo.

  “If I describe a lady to you, shall you be able to tell me her name?”

  “Try me,” said Ugo. “But first why not advertise your name?”

  “Because she has never heard it.”

  “She has not heard your name — but she will be glad to see you?”

  “I hope so — I pray so — I earnestly believe so,” sighed the young Tizzo.

  “Well,” said the beggar, “this is like something out of an old story. Perhaps love at first sight, love in passing, a look between you — and now you are hunting for her around the world. Describe her to me.”

  “I describe to you,” said Tizzo, “a girl of about nineteen or twenty. She has eyes that are brown and big — gold in the brown like sunlight through forest shadows — and a sweet, pretty, perfect, delightful face — about so wide across the brow and with a smile that dimples, do you hear—”

  “I hear,” said Ugo, smiling steeply down at the ground.

  “A smile that dimples in the left cheek only. The left cheek, you understand?”

  “Perfectly, signore.”

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “I? By no means, signore. I was simply remembering certain things. Old men cannot help remembering, you know. Tell me more about her.”

  “The top of her head comes to the bridge of my nose. Her nose, by the way, is not exactly a straight, ruled, stupid line. It is altered from that just a trifle. It is tipped up a shade at the end. Just at that slight angle which makes smiling most charming. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly, signore.”

  “Her complexion,” said Tizzo, frowning as he searched for the proper words, “is neither too pale nor too dark. A trifle pale now, because of a little trouble, but with radiance shining through. She is slightly made. Not thin, do you hear; slenderly made but rounded. In her step there is the lightness of a cat, the pride of a deer, the grace of a dancer.”

  “Ah?” said the beggar.

  “Do you recognize her?” asked Tizzo.

  “Almost!” said the beggar. “Tell me a little more.”

  And he kept on smiling down at the ground.

  “Her voice,” said Tizzo, “is singular. Of a million ladies, or of a million angels, there is not one who can speak like her. And when she sings, the heart of a man grows big with joy and floats like a bubble. Do you hear? Like a golden bubble!”

  “I hear you,” said the beggar.

  “Her hands,” said Tizzo, “are small but not weak. They are hands which could rein a horse as well as use a needle.”

  “Ah?” said the beggar.

  “And — I forgot — on her face, below the right eye, there is a little mark — not a blemish, you see — but a small spot of black; as though God would not give to the world absolute perfection or, rather, as though He would place a signature upon her; or as though through one fault he would make the rest of her beauty to shine more brightly. Am I clear?”

  Ugo, the beggar, looked suddenly into the distance, squinting his eyes.

  “Ah ha! You know her!” said Tizzo.

  “I am trying to think. I shall go to see, signore. I shall go to a certain house and make sure. And then where shall I find you?”

  “At that inn down the street. The one which carries the sign of the stag. I shall be there.”

  “Within a little while, I shall be with you, signore, and tell you yes or no.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I am called Ugo, signore.”

  “Look, Ugo. You see this emerald which is set into the hilt of my dagger?”

  “I see it very clearly. It is a beautiful stone.”

  “I swear to God that if you bring me to the lady, you shall have this stone for your own.”

  A faint groan of hungry desire burst from the lips of Ugo. In fact, he seemed about to speak more words but controlled himself with an effort.

  “At the Sign of the Golden Stag — within an hour, I hope, signore.”

  And Ugo turned and strode up the street like a young man, because it seemed to him that, when he saw the emerald, he had looked into a green deeper than the blue peace of Heaven.

  He continued on his way until he came to a great house where many horses were tethered and where there was a huge bustling from the court. Into this he made his way and said to the tall porter at the door: “My friend, carry word that Ugo, the beggar, has important word for Messer Astorre. It is a thing that I dare not speak in the streets or to any ear except to that of Messer Astorre himself.”

  Then he added, “Or to my lord, Giovanpaolo.”

  At this second name the porter stopped his smiling.

  “Messer Astorre,” he said, “is engaged in talk with an important man. If I break in upon him, I must give some excuse.”

  “It shall be this,” said Ugo. “Tell him that there is a beggar who is not a fool or crazy, but who dares to demand immediately to speak to him.”

  The porter hesitated, but the eye of the old man was burning with such a light that after a moment he was told to wait at the door while the porter went to announce him.

  This was the way in which Ugo, after a time, passed through a door of inlaid wood and came into a room lighted by two deep windows, in one of which sat the famous warrior whose name at that time was celebrated throughout Italy — the great Astorre Baglioni. First the beggar glanced hesitantly and covetously all about him at the rich
hangings which covered the walls of the room and then toward a pair of magnificent paintings done in the gay Venetian style. Afterwards he approached the noble Astorre, bowing profoundly and repeatedly.

  “Your name is Ugo,” said Messer Astorre, “and you have something to say to me?”

  The second man in the room, a tall, darkly handsome fellow who had been striding around in an excited manner, shrugged his shoulders and looked out the window as though he could hardly endure the interruption.

  “What I have to say is for the ear of my lord alone,” said Ugo.

  “Whatever is fit for me is proper for my friend, Mateo Marozzo, to hear,” said the warrior.

  “Messer Astorre,” said Ugo, “it is a thing that concerns your sister, the Lady Beatrice, I believe.”

  Mateo Marozzo whirled about suddenly, with an exclamation and Ugo shrank a little.

  “Be quiet, Mateo,” said Astorre. “Don’t frighten the man.”

  “The word was,” said Ugo, “that the noble lady your sister was gone from the town, stolen away from it by thieves hired by some of the cursed house of the Oddi. But this very day a young man spoke to me in the street, described her, and offered me a jewel if I could find her for him.”

  “So?” said Astorre, smiling. Then he added: “My sister has been returned safely to the town. Who is this man who asked for her?”

  “I do not know his name, my lord. He is a young man with red hair and eyes of a blue that shines like the blade of a fine sword, or like the blue underpart of a flame.”

  “Astorre!” Mateo called. “It is the man! It is the man! Give him to me!”

  “Well, no doubt you shall have him if you want,” said Astorre. “But who is he?”

  “He is called Tizzo. I heard his name called out in the fight. He is the Firebrand. And it was he who knocked the wits out of my head with a lucky stroke of his battle-ax.”

  “Ah?” exclaimed Astorre. “Have the Oddi become so bold as this? Are they sending their agents like this into the middle of Perugia? Are they searching for Beatrice to steal her from us again? By God, Mateo, if we can catch this fellow, you shall have him. And if you don’t tear out of him some information about the Oddi plans, call me a fool and a liar! My friend, where is this fellow?”