by Max Brand
He could not believe the thing. His craft was met and mastered by an instant resistance. No skill of his hand saved his life the next moment, but only the instinctive speed of foot and swaying body that enabled him to swerve from the steel glint of danger at his throat, at his side, or sweeping past his head.
The Borgia was rising, catching up his fallen sword. But even the Borgia’s help might come too late. For never had Tizzo faced such a fencer, with the snaky cunning of a devil in his hand and the strength of a blacksmith in his arm. Through a glittering shower of death, Tizzo warded his way to get in close and use the lightning speed of his own lighter point. But for every move he made, there was always a quick answer, a terrible counterstroke.
Of one thing he could be sure; the parry that had beat aside his master-blow must have been the sheerest accident. And now he saw his chance to use it again.
Men of the household were arriving at last, rushing in through the doorway, and yet even the brief seconds of the encounter had brought Tizzo a dozen times to the verge of death. Even the width of the room that separated the fighters from that rush of armed men to the rescue was like an ocean of danger that might be consummated before they arrived.
Right in at his enemy leaped Tizzo, savage to end the battle with his single hand before the staggered Borgia could strike him, before the shouting men-at-arms could end the struggle with an avalanche of strokes. This time there was to be no mistake. This time the master-stroke must go home. Like lightning the hand of Tizzo carried out the double effort — and found it checked with the one perfect parry.
Astonishment seized him. And then he knew. No hand in the world could have parried that attack twice except the very brain which had devised the thing and taught it to him. It was the Baron of Melrose himself. Only blind eyes could have failed to be sure of it long before. Those were the broad, heavy shoulders, the narrow hips of the old swordsman, that was the dauntless, head-high bearing —
“Father!” cried Tizzo. “Let me stand with you—”
In a flash he was at the side of the baron, who panted: “Ha! Tizzo! You have robbed the devil, tonight, of his dues! Ah ha! At them!”
For the rush of the men-at-arms had reached them across the big room, and Cesare Borgia himself was leaping in to join the attack when he saw Tizzo and held back his hand a moment.
“The old one!” he shouted. “Only the big one — spare Tizzo—”
But that shouting went for nothing. Here were keen soldiers who saw their chance to save their open-handed lord, and every man of them wanted to shed blood and assure himself of riches and a deathless gratitude.
The stroke of a halberd Tizzo turned aside with difficulty, and darted the wasp sting of his sword through the leg of the striker. He half turned and dipped down like a shrinking cat to let the long gleam of a deadly thrust pass over his shoulder. He, stabbing upward, spitted the fellow through the forearm and brought a howl of agony from him.
The Baron of Melrose had been striking and thrusting with the fury of a madman; the whole wave of the attack bore back for a moment, and allowed Tizzo to gasp: “Behind you — through the door — follow me!”
He reached the door at a leap. The lock which he had broken out had been replaced in the intervening days. One motion snatched out the key and jerked the door open.
The baron lunged through the opening as Tizzo turned and parried a stroke aimed at the head of his father. Then, slamming the heavy door, he turned the key.
They had perhaps ten seconds’ leisure; it might be that their lives were in that slight interval.
Right down the narrow, slanting passage, Tizzo rushed to the little semicircular room in which so many prayers in old days had been heard. The gap in the stone network which he had made was still unrepaired; through that gap he slipped, hung by his arms and hands, and cautioned his father: “The drop is ten feet; make your knees loose and your feet light or you’ll break a leg!”
It was a well of the thickest blackness, there below. And into it Tizzo dropped. The floor came up and spanked his feet sharply. He fell, and rolled over to get out of the way of his father.
Above him, he could hear the older man still climbing through the gap in the stone grill. And the whole house had filled with sound. Out on the street, long shrilling echoes were running. Thundering feet beat through the halls and rooms of the inn. There was a constant and jabbering outcry.
Above him, he could hear Melrose growling: “To the stable yard, Tizzo! Horses are waiting there now — and Beatrice—”
“Beatrice? At the stable yard?”
A groan filled the throat of Tizzo with an ache. In the stable yard — Beatrice — and his father involved in the horrible confusion of this danger —
He ran forward, his hands stretched far forward ahead of him, his brain striving to print the plan of the chapel floor. Quick thinking as well as luck brought him straight to the chapel door — and as he reached it, he heard his father fall heavily behind him.
The door, by the grace of happy fortune, was not locked; only the clumsy, unbalanced weight of it pulled heavily back to resist his strength, and, as it swayed gradually open, an uneven twilight from a distant lamp entered the place of prayer.
In that light, Tizzo turned and saw the baron lurching towards him, the sword gleaming in his hand.
“Down the hall!” panted Tizzo. “The first turn to the right, and then straight on.”
“Straight on!” grunted the baron.
On his feet there was the weight of a far huger frame and twenty years or so more than Tizzo carried, and yet the oldster ran like a boy.
HIS brain was clear enough, now, and he knew exactly what had happened. He had played the part of a madman. He had thrown the two beings he loved most in the world into mortal danger. He himself, even if he had killed the duke, would have been lost, surely, without the skillful guidance of Tizzo through the house.
And it seemed to Melrose, suddenly, that he had dreamed the rest of that night’s events, from the moment when, wakening, he had seen the round-faced tomcat in the casement, and the shimmering little mist of fragrance blowing in behind it.
That lower hall was empty, by miracle, though footfalls were pouring and roaring above and below it. And the yelling voices were dominated from far above by the thunder of the furious cry of Cesare Borgia himself, now roused and like a lion.
Hearing that voice, even the people in the street began to shout: “Duca! Duca! Duca!”
Tizzo, racing in the lead, turned right into the narrower passageway that led on towards the stable yard. Before him appeared in a sudden clutter three men-at-arms, with enough light barely to show that they were clad in complete mail.
Fencing tricks would not quickly end men who were completely clad in armor. Tizzo hurled himself suddenly feet first along the floor the instant after he had made his sword flicker in the air towards the heads of those armored forms. The driving weight of his body smashed through the legs. A hard rim of steel caught him fairly under the chin and knocked his brain into a daze, a thickness of dark out of which he staggered slowly to his feet.
The powerful arms of his father caught him beneath the shoulder. Wild yelling and cursing screeched behind him.
But Melrose, with Tizzo at the end of the passage, jerked the door open, and Tizzo saw the stars spinning vaguely before him, each trailing out a little arc of brightness. The fresh air cleared his head like a dash of cold water in the face.
“Beatrice — this way!” he heard the voice of his father calling.
And then Tizzo made out a sight that quite blew the mists from his brain: the gleam of the white stallion coming at a gallop beside the horse of Beatrice and another.
He was in the saddle in a moment, and he saw the big torso of Melrose loom above the next horse, as the door to the tavern opened and the three men-at-arms rushed out.
They were only in time to see the heels of the three horses as they went off at a gallop. Half a dozen more men stood in the gatewa
y of the stable yard, but though the warning cry told them who were coming, they scattered, for men on foot were not trained to stand the shock of cavalry unless they stood in a compact order with pikes levelled.
So the three rushed through.
A sea of outcry surged up behind them. It seemed to Tizzo that he could hear the thundering tones of the Borgia above all the rest. But that was gone behind him.
And also gone was the sudden dream which had flamed before his eyes of a great, new Italy, and a glorious master to serve, worthy of being a king.
Behind him, he heard hoofs sounding as horsemen started off in headlong pursuit. But they were riding away through the tangles of the orchards and vineyards; they had crossed the first low hill; they were in a labyrinth of moonlight and silence where they would never be found.
And from all the adventure there remained to Tizzo one thing only — the glory of the horse on which he rode, the white, satin sheen of it.
He halted. After the heavy burst of running through cultivated, deep ground, the other two horses were panting hard, but the stallion was as much at ease as though he had covered that ground on the wing.
Tizzo reached out a hand to the girl, a hand to his father.
“How can it be?” he asked. “How have we managed to escape from them?”
“By miracle!” said the baron, though he was not a religious or a very superstitious man.
“By miracle, of course,” said the girl. “When two such men as you stand together, miracles are as daily as bread. Come on! Let the Romagna go hang. We have Perugia to be happy in. It’s a long road, but we have good luck beside us. Ah-hah, Tizzo! when I looked from my window and saw the moonlight tonight, I knew, somehow, that you and I would be out in it before the morning. Horses and moonlight, and Italy, and all the world!”
But the baron turned and looked thoughtfully back in the direction of the Giglio Rosso. He was remembering that he had had history under the edge of his sword, and the blade of his own son had turned the stroke aside.
THE END
Claws of the Tigress (1935)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
The magazine in which this novel was serialised: Argosy, July 13, 1935
CHAPTER I
CATARINA, COUNTESS SFORZA-RIARIO, high lady and mistress of the rich, strong town of Forli, was tall, well made, slenderly strong, and as beautiful as she was wise. She used to say that there was only one gift that God had specially denied her, and that was a pair of hands that had the strength of a man in them. But if she had not a man’s strength, she had a man’s will to power, and more than a man’s headlong courage.
She was not quite as cruel as Cesare Borgia, her neighbor to the north who now was overrunning the Romagna with his troops of Swiss and French and trained peasants, but she was cruel enough to be famous for her outbursts of rage and vengeance. That sternness showed in the strength of her jaw and in the imperial arch of her nose, but usually she covered the iron in her nature with a smiling pleasantry.
Three husbands had not been able to age her; she looked ten years younger than the truth. And this morning she looked younger than ever because her peregrine falcon had three times outfooted the birds of the rest of the hawking party and swooped to victory from the dizzy height of the blue sky. The entire troop had been galloping hard over hill and dale, sweeping through the soft soil of vineyards and orchards; crashing over the golden stand of ripe wheat; soaring again over the rolling pasture lands until the horses were half exhausted and the riders nearly spent. Even the troop of two-score men-at-arms who followed the hunt, always pursuing short cuts, taking straight lines to save distance, were fairly well tired, though their life was in the saddle.
They kept now at a little distance — picked men, every one, all covered with the finest steel plate armor that could be manufactured in Milan. Most of them were armed with sword and spear, but there were a few who carried the heavy arquebuses which were becoming more fashionable in war since the matchlock was invented, with the little swiveled arm which turned the flame over the touch-hole of the gun, with its priming.
Forty strong men-at-arms — to guard a hawking party. But at any moment danger might pour out at them through a gap in the hills. Danger might thrust down at them from the ravaging bands of the Borgia’s conquering troops; or danger might lift at them from Imola; or danger might come across the mountains from the treacherous Florentines, insatiable of business and territory. Therefore even a hawking party must be guarded, for the countess would prove a rich prize.
The danger was real, and that was why she enjoyed her outing with such a vital pleasure. And now, as she sat on her horse and stroked the hooded peregrine that was perched on her wrist, she looked down the steep pitch of the cliff at whose edge she was halting and surveyed the long, rich sweep of territory which was hers, and still hers until the brown mountains of the Apennines began, and rolled back into blueness and distance.
Her glance lowered. Two men and a woman were riding along the road which climbed and sank, and curved, and rose again through the broken country at the base of the cliff. They were so far away that she could take all three into the palm of her hand. Yet her eyes were good enough to see the wind snatch the hat from the lady’s head and float it away across a hedge.
Before that cap had ever landed, the rider of the white horse flashed with his mount over the hedge, caught the hat out of the air, and returned it to the lady.
The countess laughed with high pleasure.
“A gentleman and a gentle man,” she said. “Here, Gregorio! Do you see those three riding down there? Bring them up to me. Send two of the men-at-arms to invite them, and if they won’t come, bring them by force. I want to see that white horse; I want to see the man who rides it.”
Gregorio bowed to cover his smile. He admired his lady only less than he feared her. And it was a month or two since any man had caught her eye. He picked out two of the best men-at-arms — Emilio, a sergeant in the troop, and Elia, an old and tried veteran of the wars which never ended in Italy as the sixteenth century commenced. This pair, dispatched down a short cut, were quickly in the road ahead of the three travelers, who had stopped to admire a view across the valley.
The lady countess and her companions, gathered along the edge of the cliff, could see everything and yet remain screened from view by the heavy fringe of shrubbery that grew about them.
What they saw was a pretty little picture in action. The two men-at-arms, their lances raised, the bright pennons fluttering near the needle-gleam of the spearheads, accosted the three, talked briefly, turned their horses, took a little distance, and suddenly couched their spears in the rests, leaned far forward, and rushed straight down the road at the strangers.
“Rough — a little rough,” said the Countess Sforza-Riario. “Those two fellows are unarmed, it seems to me. That Emilio must be told that there is something more courteous in the use of strangers than a leveled lance.”
But here something extremely odd happened, almost in the midst of the calm remark of the lady. For the two men who were assaulted, unarmored as they were, instead of fleeing for their lives or attempting to flee, rode right in at the spearmen.
One drew a long sword, the other a mere glitter of a blade. Each parried or swerved from the lance thrust. He of the long sword banged his weapon down so hard on the helmet of Emilio that the man-at-arms toppled from the saddle, rolled headlong on the ground, and reached to the feet of the horse of the lady.
She was on the ground instantly, with a little flash of a knife held at the visor of the fallen soldier.
“Good!” said the countess. “Oh, excellently good!”
She began to clap her hands softly.
The second rider — he on the white horse — had grappled with hardy Elia. Both o
f them were whirled from the saddle, but the man-at-arms fell prone, helpless with the weight of his plates of steel, and the other perched like a cat on top of him. His hat had fallen. The gleam of his hair in the bright sunlight was flame-red.
“And all in a moment!” said the countess, laughing. “Two good lances gone in a trice. Roderigo, you should have better men than that in your command.”
The captain, scowling, and biting an end of his short mustache, swore that there had been witchcraft in it.
“Aye,” said the countess. “The witchcraft of sure eyes and quick, strong hands… Did you see the lady leap from her horse like a tigress and hold her poniard above the helmet of your friend? Look, now! They are stripping the two of their armor. The big fellow is putting on that of Emilio; the redhead takes that of Elia. Roderigo, take three of your best lances. Down to them again, and let me see them fight against odds, now that they are armed like knights… Ah, what a glorious day — to go hawking for birds and end by stooping out of the sky at men!”
The four men-at-arms were quickly in the saddle and sweeping down the short, steep road; but here the countess found herself too far from the crash and dust of the battle. To gain a nearer view, she galloped after the four leaders, and the armed men, the courtiers, followed in a stream.
Those loud tramplings hardly could fail to be heard by the men in the roadway beneath; in fact, when her ladyship turned the shoulder of the cliff and could look at the scene, she found her four warriors already charging, heads down, lances well in rest, straight in on the pair. And these, in their borrowed armor, with their borrowed lances, galloped to meet the fresh shock.
Six metal monsters, flaming in the sun, they crashed together. The big fellow had lifted one of the men-at-arms right out of the saddle, but the counter-shock knocked his own horse to its knees; and at that instant the rearmost of the four men-at-arms caught the stranger with a well-centered spear that bowled him in his turn out of the saddle and into the dust.