Marjorie Bowen

by Marjorie Bowen

  In the silence of the chamber, the noises from the street sounded distinct, painfully distinct—shrieks and cries. Poor souls! So near eternity, and fighting over a handful of goods! Presently all noises died away into faint murmuring—or had he lost his power to hear? Then all at once it came—the beat of the drums, the summons to the walls! Louder, louder, wild, inspiring, the beat of the drums; and Vincenzo's heart bore them company.

  They rose to their feet, the two d'Estes, and clasped hands across the table, the crucifix between them.

  'God have mercy on our souls!' said Ippolito, and raised the pale, flaming candle.

  'Amen,' said Vincenzo, kissing the missal with cold lips.

  The drums beat wildly, intoxicatingly, then suddenly stopped.

  D'Este pushed back his chair; for a moment there was perfect stillness, then he laid the candle to the powder...And Vincenzo d'Este was on his knees in the patch of sunlight, its glory full on his beautiful, upturned face.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 32. — The Price of Dishonour

  He who was once the great Lord of Verona and a proud and stainless knight stood without Brescia, awaiting the price of his dishonour. It was midday, of a swooning heat, and great purple clouds lay heavily about the horizon, with a sombreness that foretold a storm.

  Mastino della Scala stood alone on a group of rocks scattered upon the plain, that sent his tall figure up against the deep sky, erect and motionless.

  All that was left of his army was behind him in the chestnut wood: half had been betrayed, half had been cut to pieces rather than yield. Some few—the lowest dregs of his camp, the men who cared not where or when they drew their swords, so they had food and drink—remained, to try their luck with him, now no better than one of themselves. Through all the miseries of that weary week his gallant band of Veronese, some two hundred, had stood by him, watching the others ambushed, attacked, surrounded, and destroyed, hearing of town after town that fell, and smiling scornfully at talk of treachery, accepting without question Mastino's silence. Was he not the son of Can' Gran' della Scala, and his name one with honour, the proudest name in Lombardy, the proudest badge in Italy, the ladder of the Scaligeri!

  So had they stayed with scorn at thoughts of betrayal whispered among the baser residue, until that morning when he had summoned their leaders and told them, with a strange calmness, he had sold them, Verona and Veronese, for his wife's release—sold Lombardy for Isotta d'Este.

  Then leaving them, standing silent and bewildered, della Scala mounted to these rocks to await his wife—alone. His eyes were on the fields before him; he hardly noticed a slight figure that crept timidly to his feet—Tomaso.

  'My lord'—the boy's voice faltered, and he kept his eyes turned away—'the Duchess hath started safely; I saw her mount her litter with glad eyes; they bade me hasten forward and tell thee so.'

  'Ah!'

  Della Scala stepped on to a higher rock and shaded his eyes with his hand. He was in armour, and bore on his arm his shield, across the boss, the ladder, the ladder on which the Scaligeri had climbed so high, and from which they had fallen—to this!

  Tomaso crouched beside him, silent and dismayed. He had clung to della Scala in spite of his father's loss (that he could not understand), and in spite of what was happening now, that began to make plain that and many things.

  Tomaso glanced up at the sombre figure standing alone above him. Mastino wore no mantle, and the golden circlet was gone from his helmet. Mastino della Scala was no longer Duke of Verona.

  No pages or footmen followed; save for this one boy, he was alone, carrying his own shield, holding his own horse, despised of those he once had thought of as beneath even his scorn.

  A gallop of horses broke the summer quiet, and spears gleamed through the ruddy chestnuts behind them. The Veronese, thought Tomaso, the Veronese soldiers.

  Della Scala neither turned his head nor moved, but stood there with his shield hanging on his arm, his sword hand listless by his side.

  Tomaso was right. The riders were a band of Veronese. At a full gallop they flew out of the shade into the sun, in face and movement, fury.

  Tomaso shrank back at sight of them, roused from their bewilderment, riding full tilt toward Mastino in a silence that was more deadly than shouts of hate; and Mastino turned at last and faced them with wild eyes.

  The foremost man was swiftly on them, his furious face brought close to theirs. As he swept up he drew the dagger at his waist and hurled it full on Mastino's shield.

  'That from me!' he cried, and rose in his stirrups with a shout. 'That and my scorn, della Scala!'

  But Mastino was prepared; he stood erect and did not flinch. Another rode by; bending his face close to him, he spat at him; both shattered their daggers on to his shield, those daggers mounted with his arms that they carried as his soldiers. One tore from his neck the collar Mastino had hung there, and flung it at his feet with curses.

  'Traitor, where is Ligozzi?' cried one, hurling an imprecation, and della Scala took a step back with a cry wrung from him; but the man was gone, and the face of another Veronese was looking into his with utter loathing. Without a pause they dashed by, each hurling his dagger, and many some order or sign of, Mastino's friendship, full upon that shield that hung on della Scala's arm.

  'That to cheer thee in thy shame!'

  'That to make a necklet for Isotta d'Este!'

  'This from me, who would have died for thee!'

  The taunts were bitter and savage, and hurled in a fury of scorn and hate; but Mastino della Scala, save for that one movement, neither flinched nor stepped out of the way of the onward rush, but bore for a long hour of that summer day that wild ride past of the Veronese and the batter on his shield of the daggers that disdained to slay him.

  'Stop! in the name of Heaven, stop!' shrieked Tomaso, and held his hands against his ears.

  They took no heed of him, in their mad fury did not even see the boy. But to Tomaso it was most terrible that della Scala made no movement to defend himself; his calm face was awful.

  'Stop Tomaso shrieked again. 'Stop!'

  How many more, how many more! How many times more that rattle as the daggers struck the shield and then fell to lie bright in the sun? How many more furious faces, how many more bitter curses? How long would della Scala stand there turned to stone? Tomaso crouched and hid his eyes. At last they came to an end. The last rode by, the standard-bearer, tearing the standard to rags with furious hands.

  'Verona is no more!' he yelled. 'The Scaligeri are no more, the standard is no more, the standard of Verona!'

  He threw the twist of red and gold at Mastino's feet with a sudden wail in his voice. He was an old man, one who had served Mastino and Mastino's father well. He stopped his horse; the first who had done so.

  'Mastino della Scala! Oh, why didst thou do this thing? Tell me thou repentest!' he cried.

  Mastino looked into the old man's wistful face.

  'Verona is no more, the Scaligeri are no more. Ride thou to the others, old man,' he said.

  The standard-bearer wrung his hands.

  'I loved thee he pleaded. 'Save thy soul and say thou dost repent!'

  Mastino's proud head was erect.

  'And do I live to save my soul? Get thee to the others, I do not repent.'

  The old man rode away sorrowfully. Della Scala watched him disappear behind the rocks and trees.

  He was the last, and silence fell.

  'They are gone!' breathed Mastino. 'They are gone!'

  His eyes fell to his shield; from rim to rim it was defaced and dented, and the ladder of the Scaligeri was beaten from its boss. The ground around was piled with arms, and Mastino put his hand up to his eyes, staggering. The ladder of the Scaligeri was beaten from his shield!

  'Some men remain, my lord,' said Tomaso timidly, at last, with a boyish effort at some consolation.

  But Mastino winced; that they remained was a sorer shame even than the deser
tion of the others: for they were men, scum of camps, who fought solely for pay and plunder, and laughed at dishonour and admired treachery—they were the men who had stayed.

  'Isotta!' cried Mastino, with a sudden wild movement. 'Why does she not come—have I not waited long—have I not paid enough?'

  'I think I see her escort coming across the fields,' said Tomaso timorously.

  Mastino turned and grasped his arm with a sudden change of manner.

  'Tomaso,' he faltered, 'methinks I am changed since last I saw her; perhaps she will—not know me—or will startle at me if she does. Tomaso, she is very fair and I have nothing to offer now—Tomaso, am I very changed?'

  He was changed, so changed the boy would scarce have known him; his soft brown hair was streaked with grey, his fine face drawn and white, his eyes, once soft and kind, unnaturally bright, and, like his mouth, strained and hard.

  Mastino laughed pitifully as he read the answer in Tomaso's frightened eyes.

  'She will not care—she will not care,' he said. But his voice was unsteady, and he supported himself against the saddle of his horse.

  'The Duchess comes!' said Tomaso, and clutched Mastino's hand.

  Out of a little wood of delicate trees, in front of them, the cavalcade was winding: Visconti's soldiers, Veronese soldiers, and a white, curtained litter in the midst.

  Mastino's gaze flew to that, and to that only.

  'Oh, my heart's desire!' he murmured. 'I do not repent!' And he forgot the ladder of the Scaligeri battered from his shield.

  The soldiers cantered up _and lowered their halberds in a salute to the magnificent figure standing there alone, while the officer read in a high voice from the parchment, that stated that Isotta d'Este, Duchess of Verona, prisoner of war of Gian Galeazzo Maria Visconti, Duke of Milan, was returned to her husband in fulfilment of the league and treaty between them.

  'Into your hands we deliver her in safety, my lord, and my Lord of Milan offers three months in which either to quit Lombardy or choose some post in his service in Verona.'

  'My choice is made: I quit Lombardy,' said Mastino. 'Leave me.'

  The soldier slightly shrugged his shoulders and gave the word, and, cantering off, Visconti's guards wheeled and followed swift behind him. They had fulfilled their duty. Isotta d'Este's safety was no affair of theirs now.

  The Veronese footmen bearing the litter had set their burden down; the white curtains fluttered—was it the breeze, or Isotta's hand, that stirred them so?

  'Tomaso, Tomaso, I have borne much; can I bear this?'

  His eyes were sparkling, his tone joyful; he had thrown all his shame from his heart; the miserable past, the miserable future, were alike forgotten; the world had narrowed to this—her welcoming face.

  He laid his shield on the ground gently, and walked across the grass softly. The curtains, white in the still blazing sun, dazzled him; his heart was beating so, he thought it must choke him.

  'Isotta!'

  He called her name so low she could not hear.

  'Isotta!'

  Still she made no answer.

  'Perchance she is very weary,' said Mastino to himself, tenderly, and drew the white curtains back. She lay back among silk cushions.

  'Isotta, my dear!'

  There was a tremor in his voice. Had she fainted?

  She lay back, her head away from him, and, bending over her, he saw through her long curls that her eyes were closed, her lips parted, and one hand at her throat—the hand that bore his wedding ring. Oh, heaven!

  He caught her head in his hands and looked at her. She was dead, quite dead. The silk curtains fell to again, and at Mastino's cry the bearers shrank, appalled. Isotta d'Este was dead.

  And Mastino lay along the ground, senseless, his defaced shield near him, bare to the bright glare of the sinking sun.

  * * *

  * * *

  Chapter 33. — The Storm

  The storm had gathered and burst; rain fell in great drops that did not allay the heat; the sky was covered with clouds that dragged across the moon in a slow procession, dark and mysterious.

  In one or two tents, thrown open to catch the breeze that stirred the chestnuts, sat the little handful of soldiers left to Mastino. Rude and coarse, still were they awed, by the horror that had befallen, to a whispering quiet.

  Like a patch of white showing dimly through the gloom, the curtains of a litter were to be seen. At thought of who sat within alone there in the rain and dark, the men shuddered and drew nearer together.

  'The Prince?' one whispered.

  'I have been to the tent, but further than the door I dare not.'

  'What was there to see?'

  'The boy—alone, weeping like a woman. Santa Maria! I should not like the watch he keeps!'

  'The Prince is mad, think you?'

  'The Prince is mad, or—hush!—possessed.'

  The men fell again to a silence, broken only by the patter of the rain. At last another spoke, one drawn further back into the tent.

  'How came it about, think you?'

  'Visconti—'

  'Ah, yes, Visconti, of a surety; but how?'

  'The wedding ring, Petio—it was handed to her as she entered the litter—it was poisoned! She put it on, poor soul—kissed it, no doubt—well, it was poisoned, Petio!'

  'And so she started alive, and now lies there dead—poor soul!' The men muttered and crossed themselves; a few sat in moody thought.

  'The sun—we need the sun,' said one at last.

  'And a little wind, not these stifling puffs—a little wind from heaven. 'Tis hot as hell!'

  'Hush!'

  How it rained! And a wind rose, but it scarcely seemed from heaven. The chestnuts moaned, tossing their branches. 'Hush said someone suddenly. 'The dear Lord forgive my sins! Who comes?'

  They heard a footstep; a hand was fumbling at the entrance of their tent.

  'The Prince!'

  And the next instant the men sprang to their feet in affright at what was before them, at the livid face looking at them—Mastino della Scala.

  'My wife!' he cried hoarsely. 'Give me my wife

  They looked on one another, helpless, and made no answer. But Mastino, striding forward, seized the foremost by the throat and shook him like a rag.

  'Where is she? What have you done with her? Is she not bought and paid for? Where is she?'

  Tomaso sprang into the tent, a piteous young figure, wet to the skin.

  'Oh, my lord! I will take thee to her. Come away! Come with me!'

  His voice broke into a passion of sobs, and Mastino dropped his hands and paused.

  'Your lady lies still in her litter,' said a soldier.

  'Out yonder in the rain, you rascal!' cried della Scala. 'What is she doing there?'

  He flung from the tent, and Tomaso after him, the bitter sobs catching at his throat.

  'I cannot bear it,' he cried. 'It is doom itself. Oh, my master! My dear master!'

  The soldiers crowded together and watched.

  'Look!' gasped one, pointing through the dark. 'He hath got her—he hath got her!'

  And they huddled back, half falling over one another, as Mastino came into view—a slender thing in white and purple in his arms. Close by, he paused, and laid it tenderly across the saddle of his white horse, whinnying low and waiting.

  'Jesu, protect us!' cried the men. 'Where is he going?'

  'Stop him! stop him!' shrieked Tomaso, running to them. 'He goes to find—Visconti—'

  'Then no one of us had best dare meddle,' was the answer. 'Keep away from him, boy; he is mad, possessed—maybe by the devil!'

  'I care not!' cried Tomaso in an agony of sorrow. 'He shall not ride so; he has no armour on—it will be to his death. He shall not go—my lord! My dear lord!'

  He sprang forward to the white horse, which Mastino had mounted, and clung to the stirrup.

  'Not tonight, my lord; wait till the morn—till the storm is over; thou art unarmed!'

&nbs
p; Mastino drew Isotta close to him, till her head rested on his shoulder, and looked down wildly at Tomaso.

  'Visconti lies outside Novara—I know the way!' he said. 'Take some of us with thee!' implored Tomaso. 'Oh, my lord—'

  But della Scala spurred the horse into a sudden leap that threw Tomaso to the ground.

  'I know the way!' he said.

  The white horse plunged forward into the storm, and the dark closed round the rider and his burden.

  For hours had della Scala ridden with his wife across his horse and against his breast, but riding always toward Novara; and now he had ridden suddenly into a wild red glare that lit the sky.

  Mastino's thoughts were centred on one thing—Visconti. There was no reflection in them; neither the past nor present had meaning. He was riding in a nightmare: he knew he carried Isotta, and that she was dead; he knew too he was riding to find Visconti—nothing more.

  The red glare rose into the sky in pointed flames.

  ''Tis a burning city,' said Mastino; but the words had no meaning. Here was light, however, had he needed it whereby to find Visconti.

  That blinding flare, though still a mile away, lit up the great posterns of a gate near, and a long wall adjoining was glowering red in it, the trails of the flowers showing like blood as they hung over it, spectral and strange. It was a noble's summer palace, lit by Novara burning yonder.

  Mastino stopped his horse, that needed no checking, worn out by the wild ride, and gazed before him at the flames, and slowly something of reasoning power returned. He had ridden to meet Visconti, and Visconti was here. He knew it—either of God or devil—knew it surely; and he rode his horse on slowly, with the double burden, through the unguarded gates, and came to a flight of steps unguarded too, leading up to a wide balcony, overlooked by high, open, lighted windows. Here was the place—unguarded. Here was Visconti, and the soul of Mastino suddenly blazed into a white heat that for a moment blinded him.

  Then he dismounted, and laid Isotta down, speaking the while to his horse. The glow from the burning city wrapped them both and made the fair dead face 'rosy. The, tempest was over, and only a soft rain fell, ceasing gradually. Mastino found a sheltered spot beneath the bushes, and with a pitiful gentleness laid Isotta down and drew the hood about her head.