by Max Brand
Tizzo:
There is frightful danger for all of us in the Rocca. But we have found an unexpected friend. Your father and I already have been smuggled out of the castle. We are waiting for you outside the town.
When you receive this letter, go straight down to the eastern court. There you will see a horse covered by a large blanket. It will be your own Falcone. The man leading it will unlock the postern for you. Go quietly through the town, keeping your face covered with your mantle and the blanket on the horse so that you will not be known. On the main road to Imola, beyond Forli, you will reach a farmhouse with a ruined stable beside it. The house will seem to be unoccupied, but go straight in through the front door and call. Your father and I are waiting.
God bless you and keep you. The countess is a devil incarnate. Come quickly.
Beatrice
Tizzo went quickly.
He clapped on his head his hat with the strong steel lining, belted his sword about him, and was instantly in the corridor. He walked with a free and careless swing. There was nothing about him to indicate that he moved with fear of danger in his mind except the silence of his step, graceful, and padding like the footfall of a cat.
He passed through a great lower hall with the hood of his cloak pulled forward so that his face was shadowed. A door opened. Somewhere music was beginning, the musicians scraping at their instruments as they tuned them. In a very few minutes the countess would be expecting to receive her guests for the great banquet.
But Beatrice was no rattle-brained girl. And if Henry of Melrose had consented to flee from the castle like a thief, then it was certain that the Countess Riario was a mortal danger to them, all three.
That was the thought of Tizzo as he passed out into the eastern court, where he saw not a living soul. He looked up at the windows, most of them dark, a few faintly illumined by the steady glow of lamps in the lower rooms, and of flickering torches above. Then, in a farther corner, something stirred. A man leading a draped horse stepped out into the pallid starlight and Tizzo went straight to him. When he was closer, the blanketed horse lifted head and whinnied, a mere whisper of sound. But it told Tizzo louder than trumpets that this was Falcone.
The fellow who led the stallion gave the strap instantly into Tizzo’s hand. Not a word was spoken. The man, who was a tall figure wrapped up to the brightness of his eyes in a great mantle, fitted a key into the small postern gate. The lock turned with a dull, rusty grating; the door opened; over the narrow of the causeway Tizzo led the horse.
“Whom do I thank?” he murmured as he went through the gate.
But the postern was shut quickly, silently behind him.
An odd touch of suspicion came up in the heart of Tizzo; and at this moment he heard the whining music of strings come from a distant casement with such a sense of warmth and hospitality and brightness about it that he could not help doubting the truth of the letter of Beatrice.
This hesitation did not endure a second. He was on the back of Falcone again, his sword was at his side, his dagger was in his belt, and if only he could have in his grasp, once more, that woodsman’s ax with its head of the blue Damascus steel, he would have felt himself once more a man free and armed against the perils of the world. However, the thought of Beatrice and of his father expanded before him pleasantly.
He jogged the stallion through by-streets. They were dark. Once a door opened and a tumult of voices, a flare of torches poured out into the street, brawling and laughter together; but Falcone galloped softly away from this scene and carried his master safely out of the town onto the broad surface of the famous road which slants across the entire north of Italy.
A moon came up and helped him to see, presently, a ruined farmhouse fifty steps from the edge of the pavement; the roof of the stable beside the house had fallen in through two-thirds of its length. The house itself had settled crookedly toward the ground. The windows were unshuttered. The door lay on the ground, rotted almost to dust.
Tizzo dismounted at this point and walked forward a little gingerly. The long black of his shadow wavered before him with each step he made over the grass-grown path; and that shadow like a ghost lay on the broken floor of the old house, slanting into it as Tizzo stood at the threshold.
“Beatrice!” he called.
The sound of his voice traveled swiftly through the place, came emptily back to him in an echo.
He stepped a few strides forward. Through the door, through two windows, the moon streamed into the interior. He could make out a pile of rubbish that had fallen from the wreck of half the ceiling; a huge oil jar stood in a corner; he could make out, dimly, the outlines of the fireplace.
“Beatrice!” he called again.
“Here!” shouted a man behind him. And at once: “At him, lads, before his sword’s out — in on him from every side—”
Three men were rushing through the doorway full upon him, the moon flashed on their morions, on their breastplates and the rest of their half-armor such as foot soldiers usually were equipped with. They came in eagerly with shields and swords, the sort of equipment which the Spanish infantry were making famous again in Europe.
Tizzo whipped out his sword so that it whistled from the sheath. If he could get through them to the door, Falcone was outside, but only a ruse would take him that far. He ran at them with his sword held above his head, shouting a desperate cry, as though with his unarmored body he would strive to crush straight through them. And they, all as anxious to drive their weapons into him, thrust out with one accord.
He was under the flash of their swords, hurling himself headlong at their feet. Once before he had saved his life by that device. Now he was kicked with terrible force in the stomach and ribs.
The fellow who had tripped over him fell headlong, crashing. Another had been staggered and Tizzo, as he gained his knees, thrust upward at the back of the man’s body. A scream answered that stroke. A scream that had no ending as the man leaped about the room in a frightful agony.
And Tizzo, gasping, breathless, rose to face the attack of the third soldier.
The strokes of the short sword might be parried; but the shield gave the man a terrible advantage and he used it well, keeping himself faultlessly covered as he drove in, calling at the same time: “Up, Tomaso! Up! Up! Alfredo, stop screeching and strike one blow, you dog. Take him behind! Have you forgot the money that’s waiting for us? Are fifty ducats thrown into our laps every day?”
Alfredo had stopped his dance, but now he lay writhing on the floor; and still that horrible screeching cut through the ears, through the brain of Tizzo.
He saw Tomaso lurching up from the floor. His sword and shield would put a quick end to this battle of moonlight and shadow, this obscure murder.
Tizzo with his light blade feinted for the head of the third soldier; the shield jerked up to catch the stroke which turned suddenly down and the point drove into the leg of the fellow above the knee. He cursed; but instinct made him lower his shield toward the wound and in that moment the sword of Tizzo was in the hollow of his throat.
He fell heavily forward, not dead, fighting death away with one hand and striving to hold the life inside his torn throat with the other. Tizzo snatched up the fallen shield and faced Tomaso, who had been maneuvering toward the rear of the enemy to make a decisive attack.
“Mother of Heaven!” groaned Tomaso. “What? Both down?”
The screeching of Alfredo turned into frightful, long-drawn groaning, sounds that came with every long, indrawn breath. Tomaso fell on his knees. “Noble master! Mercy!” he said.
He held up sword and shield.
“By the blood of God,” said Tizzo, “I should put you with the other two. But I was born a weak-hearted fool. Drop your sword and shield and I may give you your life if you tell the truth.”
The sword and buckler instantly clattered on the floor.
“I swear — the pure truth — purer than the honor of—”
“Keep good names out of your
swine’s mouth,” said Tizzo. “Stand up.”
The soldier arose and Tizzo, stepping back, leaned on his sword to take breath. He saw the man who had been stabbed in the throat now rise from the floor, make a staggering stride, and fall headlong. He who lay groaning turned, lay on his face, and began to make bubbling noises.
“Do you hear me, Tomaso?” asked Tizzo.
“With my soul — with my heart!” said Tomaso.
“Who was to pay you the fifty ducats?”
“Giovanni degli Azurri.”
“Ah?” said Tizzo. He looked back in his mind to the dark face and the bright eyes of the man who had appeared at the table of the countess for the midday meal. In what manner had he offended Giovanni degli Azurri? Undoubtedly the fellow was acting on the orders of the countess.
“Tell me, Tomaso,” he asked, “what is the position of Giovanni degli Azurri in the castle of the countess?”
“How can I tell, lord? He is one of the great ones. That is all that I know, and he showed us fifty ducats of new money.”
“Fifty ducats is a large price for the cutting of a throat.”
“Highness, if I had known what a great heart and a noble—”
“Be silent,” said Tizzo, freshening his grip on the handle of his sword.
He had to pause a moment, breathing hard, to get the disgust and the anger from his heart.
“This Giovanni degli Azurri,” he said, “is one of the great ones of the castle, and a close adviser of the countess?”
“He is, signore.”
The thing grew clear in the mind of Tizzo. The countess already knew that he and his father had parted from the Borgia with sword in hand. Would it not be a part of her policy to conciliate the terrible Cesare Borgia, therefore, by wiping an enemy out of his path? But she would do it secretly, away from the castle. Otherwise, the thing might come to the ears of the High and Mighty Baglioni of Perugia, who would be apt to avenge with terrible thoroughness the murder of their friend.
And Henry of Melrose? Beatrice Baglione? What would come to them?
It was a far, far cry to Perugia. Help nearer at hand must be found to split open the Rocca and bring out the captives alive.
He began to remember how, to please the fair countess, he had accepted the lute from her and sung her the love song. And a black bitterness swelled in his heart; a taste of gall was in his throat.
CHAPTER IV
HIS NAME WAS Luigi Costabili; his height was six feet two; his weight was two hundred; the horse that carried him was proud of the burden. Luigi Costabili wore a jacket quartered with the yellow and red colors of Cesare Borgia, with “Cesare” written across the front and across the back. His belt was formed like a snake. He wore a helmet on his head and a stout shirt of mail.
His weapons were his sword, his dagger, and the pike which infantry used to defy cavalry charges. It was not quite the weight or the balance to serve as the lance of a knight, but still it could offer a formidable stroke or two in practiced hands — and the hands of Luigi Costabili were very practiced. Among the enrolled bands of the Romagnol peasantry who followed the Borgia there was not a finer specimen than Costabili. He knew his own worth even better than he knew his master’s. Therefore he paid little heed to a slender man who rode out onto the Faenza highway on a white stallion. But when the stranger came straight on toward him, Luigi Costabili lifted his pike from his foot and stared, then lowered the weapon to the ready.
The stranger had red hair and bright, pale blue eyes, like the blue one sees in a flame. When he was close to Luigi, he called out, in the most cheerful and calm voice imaginable: “Defend yourself!” and drew a sword.
“Defend myself? I’ll split you like a partridge!” said Luigi.
And he let drive with his pike. He had practised a maneuver which the master of arms said was infallible. It consisted of a double feint for the head, followed with a hard drive straight for the body. Luigi used that double feint and thrust with perfect adroitness and facility, but the sword did a magic dance in the hand of the other; the pike was slipped aside, and the white horse, as though it was thinking on behalf of its master, sprang right in to the attack. He was far lighter than the charger Luigi bestrode, but he drove his shoulder against the side of Luigi’s big brown gelding with such force that man and rider were staggered.
Luigi dropped the pike, caught for the reins, snatched out his dagger, and then had his right arm numbed by a hard stroke that fell on it below the shoulder.
If that blow had been delivered with the edge, Luigi would have been a man without a right arm and hand during the rest of his days; but the whack was delivered with the flat of the blade only and the result was merely that the dagger dropped from the benumbed fingers of the big soldier.
He looked down the leveled blade of the red-headed man and felt that he was blinded. Helplessness rushed over him. Bewilderment paralyzed him as effectively as though he had been stung by a great wasp. So he sat without attempting resistance and allowed a noosed cord to be tossed over him and his arms cinched up close against his sides.
A turn of the cord about the pommel of the saddle secured him as efficiently as though he were a truss of hay.
“What is you name?” asked the stranger.
“Luigi Costabili,” said the peasant, “ — and God forgive me!”
“God will forgive you for being Luigi,” said the other. “Do you know me?”
“I know the trick you have with your sword,” said Costabili.
“I am Tizzo of Melrose,” said the stranger.
Costabili closed his eyes. “Then I am a dead man,” he groaned.
“Luigi, how do you come to ride such an excellent horse?”
“It was given to me by the Duke of Valentinois himself, because I won the prize at the pike drill of the whole army.”
“He is going to give you a greater gift than that,” said Tizzo, “if you will carry safely and quickly to him a letter that I’ll put in your hands.”
“I shall carry it as safely as a pigeon, highness,” said poor Luigi. “But you — pardon me — you are not Tizzo. He is half a foot taller than you.”
“I am Tizzo,” was the answer, accompanied by a singular little smile and a glint of the eye that made Luigi stare.
“Yes, highness,” he said. “You are whatever you say, and I am your faithful messenger.”
“Luigi, if I set you honorably free and let you have your weapons, will you do as you promise and ride straight to the duke?”
“Straight, my lord! Straight as an arrow flies or as a horse can run... Tizzo... the captain himself!”
The last words were murmured.
In the Rocca of the town of Forli, Caterina Sforza strode up and down a tower room with the step of a man. Anger made her eyes glorious, her color was high. She looked what she was — the most formidable woman that ever gripped a knife or handled thoughts of a sword. Her passion had risen high but still it was rising.
Most of the time she glared out the casements toward the sea on one side and toward the mountains on the other; only occasionally did she sweep her eyes over the figures of the two who were before her, their hands and their feet weighted down with irons. Henry of Melrose carried his gray head high and serenely. But his jaw was set hard and his eyes followed the sweeping steps of the virago. The Lady Beatrice, on the other hand, looked calmly out the window toward the mountains and seemed unconscious of the weight of the manacles that bound her. She maintained a slight smile.
“Treachery,” said the Lady of Forli, panting out the words. “Treachery and treason!”
The men-at-arms who remained in a solid cluster just inside the door of the room stirred as they listened, and their armor clashed softly. Giovanni delgi Azurri, their leader, actually gripped his sword and looked at the big Englishman as though he were ready to rush at him with a naked weapon.
“One of you or both of you know where the sneaking, hypocritical, lying thief has gone and how he managed to get out of the ca
stle,” cried Caterina Sforza.
“If my son is a thief,” said the Baron of Melrose, “will you tell us what he stole?”
“My smallest jewel case with my finest jewels in it!” declared the countess.
Here the eyes of Giovanni degli Azurri glanced down and aside suddenly. And the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.
“A great emerald, two rubies, and a handful of diamonds!” said the countess. “Gone — robbed from me — stolen — by a half-breed dog! A half-breed dog!”
She stopped and stamped, and glared at the Englishman. His color did not alter as he answered without heat: “You have tied up my hands with iron, madame. But even if you had not, in my country a man cannot resent a woman’s insult.”
“A scoundrel!” cried the countess. “I could see it in his face. A sneaking, light-footed, quick-handed thief! Ah, God, when I remember the red heart of fire in the biggest of my rubies... and gone... gone to an adventuring, smiling, singing, damned mongrel. But I’ll tear it out of you! The executioner knows how to tear conversation out of the flesh of men. Stronger men than Henry of Melrose have howled out their confessions, and I’ve stood by and listened with my own ears — and laughed — and listened — and laughed. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you, madame,” said the big Englishman.
He looked steadily, gravely, toward the sinister grin on the face of Giovanni degli Azurri.
“Will you tell me now,” demanded the countess, “where Tizzo has gone? Or must the rack stretch you first? Will you tell me what poisonous treason enabled him to get out of my castle without permission?”
“Could no one else have let him go?” asked Melrose.
“Giovanni degli Azurri,” said the countess. She turned and fixed a blazing eye on the face of her favorite.
But Giovanni smiled and shook his head. “Is it likely that I’d steal the jewels of your highness and give them to that redhead?” he asked. “Had I any special reason for loving him?”